


A Game of Smash

by XOs



Series: A Song of Heroes and Villains [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Anger, Citizens - Freeform, Competition, Death, F/M, Fantasy, Fighting, Gen, George R R Martin, George R R Martin is a Genius, Gore, Hatred, Horikoshi Kohei, Horikoshi Kohei is also a Genius, I'll add tags as I go along, Knights - Freeform, Legends, Lords, Love, Magic, Marriage, Medieval, Monsters, Murder, Mysteries, NOMUS - Freeform, OCs - Freeform, Ordinary Folk, Pain, Queens, Rivals, Unhappy marriage, Violence, War, battles, beasts - Freeform, happy marriage, kings - Freeform, ladies, multiple POVs, myths, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XOs/pseuds/XOs
Summary: For thirty whole years, King Toshinori has ruled over Westeros in undisturbed peace, until it becomes apparent that he still lacks an heir. The king issues a challenge across Westeros in order to find the man he believes should replace him, a decision that rattles the aristocracy, who had once believed their claims would be more legitimate. The Hand's responsibilities increase as he must maintain the relationship between the king and the nobles, whilst organising the forthcoming challenges issued by King Toshinori.Meanwhile, in the North, a malicious aura emanates beyond the Wall, a cold that threatens to sweep across all of Westeros and consume all who stand in its way. The collapse of Westeros is close, but will the Wall or the throne fall first?





	1. Ibara

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Boku no Hero Academia meet the world of A Song of Ice and Fire!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure a few of you noticed today, but AO3 had a small collapse this morning that reminded me of myself when I finally finished my exams and just wanted to sleep for an entire week. It's being a little slow right now, but I just had to get this out there, since I've been dying to write a Game of Thrones AU FanFic for quite some time.
> 
> And since I'm completely absorbed into the BNHA fandom, I really had to do a BNHA/GoT crossover. I actually haven't finished reading the books (although I really want to) and because of that, I haven't watched the TV show, even though I know the two drift apart once the TV show progresses beyond the books. Because of that, I'll largely be using the information I know from the books, but there will probably be some features I may use from the little bits of the TV show that I have seen.
> 
> Honestly, I've just been so eager to do something like this. I really, really hope you enjoy. I must say, since the characters are from BNHA, I'd say that it's more focused towards that fandom, but if you're more the GoT fan and don't know a whole load about BNHA, feel free to delve in and see what I come up with!
> 
> I'll be keeping most geographical terminology, although obviously I won't have the same castle names or places named after Houses such as Lannisport (no matter how much I love those craft lions) as those characters won't appear in this Fic.
> 
> That's all from me. Enjoy!

**Some hundred miles away from Coldwater, right on the tip of the second longest finger, Ibara was wandering down the beach, scuffed boots sinking into the sand as she collected shells.** She would stuff them into a bruised and battered brown leather purse she kept strapped at her hip, alongside a rusted old dagger that her father had thrust into her hands. She carried it now, the weight of his instructions ringing heavily in her mind. At first, she had been clueless as to what had been happening, but it wasn’t like she was an oblivious child. She had certainly seen the strange, hooded man lurking in the dark corner, a client, she had presumed. She had seen the pallid expressions on the faces of her parents, and had only been able to conclude that a dangerous man was currently sitting in her house, watching over her parents without making the threat clear or evident. So, when her father had given her the blade and sent her on her way, she had scanned the wet, cold fields and then the beach, looking for a dark, feathered bird that suspected no better.

Fortunately for Ibara and her family, the Seven were clearly on their side. She sent them a brief, murmured prayer when she heard the rattled squawks and the frantic flapping of wings. Drifting across the beach was a wounded raven, unable to lift its broken wings from the ground. It was bleeding lightly, most likely from a bite wound received from a fox, or some other late night predator. Given her instructions, she rather felt like she would be doing this creature a kindness. Her father had told her that the bird she brought back would be more useful dead, instead of alive. In her mind’s eye and experience with magic, Ibara was fairly certain that, for a pure ritual, a live and innocent creature must die for the sake of the spell, rather than having died beforehand. Whatever the robed man wanted, it could not be good, nor could it be pure. Ibara had not known her father dealt in dark magic. He had only introduced her to the good things, the _nice_ things. The things that healed and cleaned and helped people. As she approached the injured bird, she knew that nothing healing, cleansing, or even _remotely_ helpful was going to be borne of the creature’s corpse.

Still, her father had told her what to do. Approaching the raven, she stooped down to smooth its feathers over, before noticing the piece of paper that was strapped to its leg. A messenger raven, of course. Ibara was one of the few commoners who was well-read. She needed to be, if she were to be able to cast spells like her own father did. Carefully, she reached for the note, only to flinch back when the raven made to peck at her. Once more, she smoothed the feathers down, taking the note as she did so. In its dying moments, Ibara was willing to let this raven believe it had performed its final job successfully, even if the letter was likely miles away from where it ought to be. After all, nothing appeared in Coldwater for a reason, and nothing appeared on the second longest finger’s tip at all. It was a remote and rural stretch of land that held very little purpose in the large scale of Westeros. Peeling the note open, she noticed the damage of damp on its corners, and how the neat penmanship had become smudged over days and nights of abuse from the cold northern winds and salty sea air.

_King of the Andals and the First men. Please send help in strength. Daily attacks by monstrous beasts. The Wall is threatened. – Lord Tsukauchi_

It was a hurried note, a letter written out of pure desperation, given the way some smudged fingerprints indicated a clumsy rush to get the letter sent off. Ibara pocketed it, planning to tell her father about it as soon as the shady business between him and the strange, hooded man came to an end. Soothing the raven’s feathers once more, she swiftly slashed its throat, wincing as blood pooled around the bird and stained her fingers. Shaking her hands and relieving herself of the mess, wiping her skin across the now reddened sand, Ibara gently lifted the breathless creature in her hands, a wave of guilt passing over her. It had been wounded, yet its last moments were not particularly satisfying. Pitying it, she carried it as if it were a new born child, hoping its next life would be far more radiant and brilliant than this one.

Cold winds whipped at her face, near blinding her as she squinted against the gale. Her cheeks were reddened and sore, her long green hair billowing out behind her, and skirt clinging to her legs and ankles. Balancing the raven in the crook of her elbow, she tugged her shawl tighter around her body, lips quivering from the cold. They had previously just endured an incredibly long summer, lasting over a full season. That had been followed by a short autumn, one that hadn’t even completed a moon’s cycle. What she was feeling now was the threat of a cold season, not a _Winter_ , but certainly wintery weather. The winds were brittle and carried promise of a very cold season that was oncoming, which Ibara didn’t like the look of. Things were also more sinister in winter. Shadows reached out, nights grew longer and the howls of monsters and spirits lurked along the coast and whispered through trees. Soon, she would be able to feel the hum of a spiritual energy as the days progressed.

Soon, on the horizon, she saw the little wooden hut where she and her father lived. Her bag clunked with shells, which she would later crush into a coloured paste that she could sell at the Coldwater market in order to bring an income to the family. She didn’t gain much, but since she and her father lived off of the land anyway, their reliance on economy and other people was very low. Shaking the sand from her boots, she took them off and left them by the door, which creaked as she pushed it open. Natural light flooded in through the window, the worn and ragged cloth they used for curtains flailing around in the breeze. Old wooden floorboards groaned beneath her weight as she padded across the small entrance, ducking beneath the cloth flap that hid the central room from anyone who opened the front door. Ibara knew which floorboards to avoid, since some had begun to rot and could break at any moment.

As soon as she had ducked beneath the curtain, her senses were attacked with the smell of incense, a sharp spice they had purchased from a travelling merchant from the Summer Islands. Most others had avoided the large, dark-skinned man, but not Ibara and her father. The mysterious eastern continent of Essos and the wealth it provided had always been a fascination to the two of them, particularly as Ibara’s great-grandmother had originated from the distant city of Volantis. Although Ibara herself had never met the woman, her father had excitably gabbled about how she had escaped Volantis illegally on a travelling merchant’s boat, a merchant who would later be her great-grandfather. Her father hoped that one day the Shiozaki family could return to Essos, even Volantis, just to experience the fresh views and breeze of their blood’s homeland. A ram’s skull hung over the kitchen stove, and feather fans were aligned along the walls, all in multiple colours from birds of across the known world. Her father kept chicken bones burning on a pot on the stove, mixed with sage and thyme, to purify their home and ward off disease and plague. It left for a mix of aromas in the house, a comforting smell that Ibara had come to know and love.

However, her return reminded her of the gravity of the current situation. She carried the dead raven into her home, a bad sign already. It was never wise to bring the currently dead within the home’s confines, for fear that the spirit would rage on the outside at having been brought into a four-walled prison. Still, her father had given her close instructions and she had to follow them. Hunched in the corner of the room was the stranger, his black hood drawn over his face, entirely hiding his features from view. Whenever she stood in close proximity of him, Ibara could feel a sinking feeling in her stomach. She didn’t trust that man. He emitted a dark aura, gave her a feeling of dread and reminded her of death. Some part of her was tempted to take the raven and run and to never look back. But she walked forwards anyway, closer towards the large pot her father had set up in the centre of the room.

“There you are, Ibara,” her father walked in from the back garden, long spindly legs stretching out across the room. “And you have the bird.”

He extended long fingers towards it. Ibara’s father meant the world to her. She knew he was far taller than the average man and his thin, somewhat withered figure gave the impression that he was sick and weak. He was quite the opposite, filled with life and speeding around. There were days when her father reminded her a lot of a spider, whizzing around to create his comfort web. He was a creature of habit, always dipping in and out of recipes to make potions as requested by people living nearby and in Coldwater, with the rare Westerosi traveller having come from afar. Clients would move in and out of the building, a sea of faces that Ibara had learnt to forget, rather than remember. There was no point in delving into other people’s business. That was dangerous. Despite their involvement with the potions, Ibara and her father preferred to avoid whatever consequences may occur in the lives of other people. Potions had to be used knowing the results of their effects.

This, though, felt wrong on all kinds of levels, the kind of potion that ought not to be made at all. Ibara normally wouldn’t hesitate to give her father whatever ingredient he requested for his next recipe, but this time she did. This time, her hands were uncertain as she handed the dead bird over, feeling the stranger’s gaze watching their every movements with eyes that were hidden in darkness. Her father took the bird and, without a second’s thought, dumped the corpse into the potion. There was a sinister sizzling and, when Ibara peered over the edge of the pot, she could see the bird’s feathers and flesh dissolving in whatever the solution was made of. Indeed, she could tell this was a terrible potion, something that truly ought not to exist. Fear bubbled in her stomach as her father guided her away from the pot, as fearing she might fall in. Ibara already knew that contact with the potion would mean certain death. She shrank back to the shadows, watching from afar, not wanting to draw any closer to the dark and dangerous, bubbling pool in the pot.

“This is my daughter, if you were wondering,” her father explained to the stranger. “You can trust her.”

“I’m sure I can,” the voice that came from the darkness was both older and younger than she had expected, belonging to someone who could’ve been as young as her, to someone who had experienced many years on this world. “Particularly if she’s going to be watching the proceedings.”

Ibara tried to remain hidden, for she didn’t want to go anywhere near the man. She could tell he was not a good person, given the strange feeling he emitted when she looked towards him. Her father continued stirring the pot, oblivious to Ibara’s strange mood. Perhaps that was for the best. Ibara wasn’t sure if he would believe her or not, or dismiss her mood as being shy around a stranger.

“Where did you say you were from, again?” her father asked colloquially. He often did this; made conversation with those he was brewing the potion for. Once they were gone, he would never mention them again, but whilst they were here, he could talk for the entirety of Westeros. It often meant they would pay more and Ibara and her father were reliant on the money.

“I never said,” the stranger replied, keeping his head low and his shoulders bent over, as if he were in pain. “Meereen. If you’ve heard of it.”

“I believe I have,” Ibara’s father replied carefully. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s in Essos, isn’t it?”

The stranger leant back in his seat, stretching out long legs that he crossed at the ankles, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “It is.”

Ibara didn’t know many cities from Essos, other than the nine Free Cities. Meereen was not one of them. Beyond the Free Cities, most Westerosi were unfamiliar with the geography of Essos, largely basing value from the exotic sounds of the names. It shouldn’t have come to a surprise to Ibara that the stranger would come from somewhere she had never heard of. Maybe that was what she found so off about him? Perhaps it was the way he spoke, with words that sounded Westerosi, but held an edge of something else? He was definitely someone she wasn’t willing to trust, particularly given the potion he had commissioned her father to make. Even though Ibara had not been told what it did, she knew it was related to death. Only poisonous, bad things could be created from death.

“Much further east compared to the Free Cities,” the stranger added nonchalantly, unafraid to reveal information about himself. “Beyond even Volantis.”

“In that case, you have travelled far,” Ibara’s father noted, looking at the stranger with admiration in his dark eyes.

People believed that Ibara was some hybrid between man and monster, given the nature of her coloured hair. She liked to believe the Seven had acknowledged her as a thing of nature, green to blend in with the trees and fields, even if she spent most of her time in front of the sea. For that reason, she lived outcast with her father, avoiding the horrific stares of other people as they wondered whether she should be trusted or not. Witch, Warg, demon. These were all names she had heard whispered behind her back when others thought she couldn’t hear them. Whatever had coloured her hair green, she could only assume it was her mother, or the Seven. To Ibara, it didn’t matter. She supposed the stranger had seen far weirder, for he hadn’t reacted at all when she had arrived through the doorway.

“It’s taken me an entire season to get here,” the stranger said and Ibara realised why he sounded so worn down at this point. “Almost four moon cycles. It’s been a long journey. It didn’t help that I had to leave the horse at Pentos.”

“You’ve travelled here on foot from King’s Landing?” Ibara’s father looked amazed. “You have some resilience to you, my friend.”

“Patience has gotten me thus far, so I have to use my time wisely,” the stranger said. “I’ve been saving up to travel to Westeros for quite some time now. I may not need to say this, but Meereen is hardly the ideal place to stay. As for Westeros, I have heard so much…”

“I hope you like it here,” her father continued. “Tell me- what is Meereen like?”

“Hot,” the stranger complained, lifting his shoulders with an effortless shrug. “Dry. There’s nothing else to say about it. Essos is desolate beyond the Free Cities, either in terrain or morals. Meereen is not the type of place for a visit-” Ibara heard a slight curl to his words as he considered what to say next. “- _my friend_.”

“Strange of you to find yourself here so soon,” Ibara’s father remarked. “I rather think there are far more splendid places than Coldwater, let alone on the distant tips of the fingers. You risk travelling too north, and then the conditions really get cold.”

“I’m not used to the cold,” the stranger replied bluntly.

“I figured as much, given your description of Essos,” Ibara’s father continued. “Westeros has a climate of everything, but it’s most moderate around King’s Landing, as well as in the Westerlands and the Riverlands. I wouldn’t go further north than here, my friend.”

“I have heard of the famed Wall,” the stranger said.

“You wish to take the Black, sir?” Ibara’s father looked intrigued.

“No, to visit.”

A low chuckled left her father’s throat. Ibara couldn’t help but smile at the warm sound of his laughter. For a moment, it felt like they weren’t committing an act of atrocity swirling in the pot before him.

“My friend, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but travellers do not merely ‘visit’ the Wall,” Ibara’s father peered into the pot. “The Wall has such treacherous conditions and the Night’s Watch is filled with criminals and mercenaries. Good men, too, though they are outweighed by the bad. The strongest man has succumbed to the cold near the Wall.”

“I wish to see the Wall,” the stranger repeated, firmly this time.

“I may describe, if you would like, my friend?” her father offered. “I truly wish to discourage you from making such a journey so far north. It’s a fool’s errand, I might say.”

“And how might you describe the Wall?”

“Tall and made of ice,” Ibara’s father said pointedly. “That’s all there is to see. And heaps of snow. Sad faces, an ice wall and heaps of snow.”

“You forget that I’ve never seen snow before,” the stranger replied, almost coolly. “I wish to see the Wall. You won’t change my mind, _my friend_.”

There was something cold about the way he spoke to her father. Ibara wanted to warn him about this, but the stranger was right there. She didn’t want this cloaked man to know that she disliked him so much. She didn’t want him to realise the truth about her hesitations and why she wanted to create so much distance between herself and him. Ibara wanted the stranger to leave, even if that meant sending him off to the Wall to his untimely and expected demise.

“Very well,” her father looked into the pot once more. “Then, I would recommend you purchase some warmer gear. You will freeze up north wearing that.”

“Duly noted,” the stranger sounded less sullen. “I suppose there will be plenty of opportunities as I travel further north.”

“And do you intend to bring this north?” Ibara’s father finally asked, a crease appearing in his brow. “I can’t think what you would need it for, other than…”

There was a pause of silence as the stranger lifted his head a fraction. Ibara still couldn’t see his face, but for some reason, she assumed he was smiling. The room seemed to grow cold. Ibara could feel herself shaking, from cold or from fear she couldn’t say, though. Perhaps it was both.

“My friend, do you intend to damage the Wall?” her father stopped mixing the pot. “I had assumed this was intended for an enemy, but I’m not sure I could aid in creating such a potent mixture that could bring great trouble and death across Westeros. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for such a thing.”

“You sound so cold all of a sudden!” the stranger laughed mirthfully.

“The Wall is the safety of Westeros,” Ibara’s father stepped away from the pot. “Beyond it are barbarians and savages- we call them the wildlings. They are dangerous people.”

“Anyone can be dangerous if they put their mind to it,” the stranger rose to his feet. “My friend.”

Ibara heard a yelp and watched a large, hulking shadow emerge from the darkness of their home. The window was gaping wide open, so she had not noticed such a creature come into the house. It was a staggering height of around eight feet, no- more- with jagged, sharp teeth and wide, lidless round eyes that both stared and seemed blind. Large, leathery wings sprouted from its back, shoulders blades protruding as it struggled to old itself upright. As Ibara was keen to note, her father was not a small man, even if he was thin. But this monster, this _demon_ , lifted him effortlessly in arms as thick as tree trunks, its grin manic in the low light, as it dumped him face first into the potion. Ibara shrieked, falling backwards against the wall in her attempt to get away. Bubbles were rising to the surface of the potion as her father strained and struggled against the beast. The one time he lifted his head was too much for Ibara, who was immediately sick at the sight of flesh and muscle slithering down his eyeless, grinning face.

“Valar morghulis,” the stranger cackled. “ _My friend_.”

Ibara screamed again when her father was plunged beneath the burning, acidic liquid. The monster heaved him all the way in, sending up liquid rising over the pot’s surface and melting onto the floor. Curiously, it only seemed to be burning organic material, as the pot remained intact whilst the wood oozed and dripped away.

“Careful, Nomu,” the stranger continued darkly, still laughing to himself. “You might send your brother collapsing six feet under.”

Ibara could only watch, terrified as her father attempted one more chance at life, somehow still alive, a skeletal hand draping over the edge of the pot. It twitched, before falling entirely still. With a tut, the stranger nudged the bones back in, hastily wiping his fingers against his clothes with a small hiss of pain. Her frozen muscles watched as he lifted a vial from his pocket filled with what looked like blood and poured the entire contents into the pot, sending the contents into a boiling frenzy.

Slowly, the stranger turned his head towards her, and she finally saw his face. His skin was pallid, wrinkled around the eyes, and she could see a small scar on his lip. His eyes were the colour of blood, the colour of rust, and she felt them piercing her core. The way he stood was awkward and gangly, his limbs thin as he began to approach her with careful assurance. She pulled herself closer to the wall, staring up at him when she felt the press of something cold against her hip. The dagger. Ibara let herself shake a little longer, forced herself not to run out of fear until he was within reach.

Then she attacked.

She had initially aimed for the throat, but he had a quicker reaction than she had anticipated. Instead of his neck, the blade slashed across his forearms, through the cloth, leaving a weeping, red wound on both arms. He staggered backwards, hissing with pain and seething with anger as Ibara raced for the door and outside.

Unfortunately, there were not many places for her to run other than the thin line of trees that would lead to Coldwater. It was her only chance of getting help. Only a mad man would attack a young woman in front of so many other people. Dagger held firmly in her sweaty hand, Ibara shot towards the trees, her heart racing in her chest as pure adrenaline took control of her senses. Thin grass soon turned to shrubs and she soon found herself crashing through the thick undergrowth, slowed in movement but still fuelled by determination that willed her to escape.

There was an awful shriek from behind that echoed around Ibara’s head, a noise she knew had come from the place she had once loved and cherished as her home. Whatever was making that noise, she knew it was not her father. He was gone. He was dead. She would never see him again. She could feel hot tears spilling down her face and cursed herself for crying, since crying would do her no good now. No monster would hesitate to kill her because of a few tears. Scrambling past trees, Ibara hoped the monster’s size would struggle more so compared to her. The woods were not the best place for a large body mass, so if she was struggling, Ibara could only hope those chasing her were, too.

There was another terrifying noise, a sound that chilled her to the bone, followed by an anguished shriek she hadn’t heard before. Turning her head, she saw the monster tangled in the branches, wings rapidly flapping after its failed drop attack. To think it had been above her the whole time, waiting for the right moment to crush and kill her. She bleated in terror and kept going, although she could feel a pain beginning to form in her lungs as she ran out of air. Huffing and puffing wouldn’t save her, though. She had to keep going. She had to run the one hundred or so miles to Coldwater, even if she felt like she was going to collapse doing so. Surely there would be other settlements along the way? She had never truly paid attention, although now it seemed hopeless to reach Coldwater. Ibara hadn’t realised just how far away from society she and her father had lived.

“Please, help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, realising that she could never run the distance and hope to escape. “Help!”

It was dark and she could barely see. If someone was holding a torch, she would’ve noticed them by now. However, as she couldn’t, Ibara was losing faith in her future. She began to openly weep, vision blurred by the tears, but knowing that she was fighting a losing game. Everything she was doing now was in vain, even if she was desperate to not die. Her father had fallen so ungracefully, sputtering in the pot, and Ibara didn’t want the same fate to befall her, even though that was the most likely scenario.

In her haste and blindness, she tripped over a root, falling face first in the mud. Pleading to the Seven to save her, she tried scrambling to her feet, when a large, clawed hand grasped her ankle. Shouting her refusal at the monster, she twisted in its grip, her heart almost failing her when she smelt the stink of rotten meat on its breath and saw the rows of sharp teeth right before her. But she willed herself to stay strong, plunging the dagger hilt-deep into the monster’s wrist. Blood spouted upwards as it recoiled, tearing the blade from its arm. It was almost rearing up like a horse, drawing itself to full height. Ibara acted on instinct, rolling to the side as it brought both fists down onto the dirt, dust pluming upwards.

Eyes watering, Ibara leapt to her feet and kept running, ignoring the blood and mud that covered her scraped knees, legs and clothes. She was still a stuttering mess, pushing past thin branches that scratched her face and tugged at her hair. The monster was howling in the distance, branches breaking beneath its feet and it clumsily tried to follow after her. She could create space between them and, if she could keep this up for the whole night, there was a chance she’d come across a small village to latch on to where people could ward the beast away.

A fast, blurred movement to the right sent Ibara reeling, dodging to the side, even though she could only see thin air amongst the dark trunks. Her breaths were coming out in cold plumes in front of her nose and mouth, as she propelled herself from a nearby tree trunk. Staggering from side to side, Ibara hurried through the woods, ignoring the ache in her legs, even though she had slowed considerably, her energy rapidly waning. She was struggling past trees when a horrifying creature stepped out into view, red eyes focused on her.

It was so dark that she barely knew what she was looking at, but she felt a spark of both fear and calm well up inside her. Ibara assumed it was because she knew she was going to die. Still, she wanted to live and if that meant merely postponing her death, she was willing to do just that. She turned to leave, turned to escape the small, dark form standing in front of her. Even though she knew the larger monster was crashing through the trees in the other direction, she just wanted to escape the terrible creature that stood before her, the one that emanated an aura of pure evil.

She wanted to tell to the Father and the Mother for justice, mercy and good judgement on her soul, but she was met with a pair of gleaming, yellow eyes, like orbs of light floating in the darkness. Ibara barely had the chance to react when her throat was torn out, leaning an empty husk in her neck that was pooling with blood. Gagging on her own life force, she fell to her knees, hands over the wound in an attempt to save herself, but the red blood spilled past her fingers and dripped onto the ground. She let herself lie down, decided she may as well die on the ground now that she was here.

There were footsteps and the stranger was looking down at her with a peaceful smile and his blood coloured eyes. The hood had fallen from his face and his hair was such a light colour that it looked blue in the moonlight. He was more youthful than she had imagined him to be.

“Good job, new Nomu,” a wide, horrifying grin appeared on his face. “Now, I want you to pass on a message to the _usurper king_.”

Ibara groaned as she felt something chewing on her arm, stripping the skin away.

“Tell them…” he sounded thoughtful as he mused about what to say. “Tell them that Winter is coming.”

Ibara coughed out her life as the weight in her pocket would never fulfil the raven’s mission.


	2. Shota

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me again, back at it with the Game of Thrones (or Smash, in this case). I must admit, these chapters do take me a little bit longer to write than my average Fic, but I just love getting into the feeling of descriptions and character interpretations and putting in as many details as possible. The more I write, the more excited I become about what I have planned!
> 
> I must admit, I am a little fatigued today, as I've been walking around for about 6 hours and I wasn't wearing the most sensible of shoes (although 3 inch platforms are totally sensible, right??) so now my feet are dying on me. RIP XOs' feet. Anyway, I only brought that up because I was writing this chapter, did all that walking, and then I was really tired as I finished the chapter. Also, I didn't sleep the best last night, so apologies if there are some sentences that straight out just don't make sense ^^'
> 
> Anyway, enough about me, and more about this chapter. The man, the meme, the legend.

**He could not say he was enthralled to see the letter in his hands.** It would be equally difficult to say he _wasn’t_ enthralled, even though the latter was his opinion on the matter. What he was looking at was a mixture between sheer idiocy and a pure loss of rationality. A sane, madman’s scribbles, to say the least. Shota had had to read it more than once to fully understand its meanings and implications, and even then, he was struggling to make sense of what he had just clearly read. He had been seated at his desk, rushing out a letter to Lord Asui, when a soft knock at the door had revealed a messenger presenting him a letter from the king himself. As they were both busy men, Shota hadn’t been surprised that King Toshinori had chosen to send a letter rather than summon him. At the same time, he was relieved that the king was not present to see the look of disdainful horror on his face having read what he had. What he ought to do was rush straight down to the Iron Throne and throw the letter on the floor to prove how little he thought of this idea, but Shota didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting King Toshinori in the process of rejecting the utterly ridiculous plan. He would have to address him, though. Face to face. Cowardly and quietly writing letters backwards and forwards between them would get them nowhere; he understood that this was something that was best spoken about between two men who held important positions in Westeros.

Pushing the letter to Lord Asui aside, Shota rose to his feet and fastened his cloak over his shoulders using a clasp depicting the hand emblem. Since he was speaking on formal matters, in particular a topic that would definitely change the fate of Hetalos, he tied his hair back, because he wanted King Toshinori to take him seriously. There would be no room for jovial comments and light, friendly joking today. Shota intended to make his voice loud and clear, lest the message be lost entirely. He knew that many nobles were keen to look down on him based solely on his appearance; he was sometimes called the Peasant Hand, a name which was intended go behind his back but of which he had heard of many a time. Shota was fully aware that he did not look noble with his drab coloured clothes and somewhat unwashed appearance. That was the least of concerns, though, as he was still the man that the king had chosen to be the Hand. King Toshinori had favoured him as loyal and competent, a combination of traits which were becoming increasingly rare as King Toshinori’s reign lengthened. It was upon his own integrity that Shota hoped the king was willing to listen to what he had to say.

Making his way down the long, spiral staircase that led up to the Hand’s room and office in the Red Keep, he couldn’t help but notice the sinister breeze that swept through the slats that looked outside across King’s Landing. He paused to look over the mass of huddled buildings that stretched out for miles and the grey skies that hung overhead. Shota was of House Aizawa, who were Wardens of the North, so he was used to cold weather. However, he knew it was not supposed to be quite this cold yet. He was an autumn child, typically not as naïve as those born in the spring and summer. His name day had yet to come, but as it was soon, Shota knew it could not yet be winter. Why, then, was a brittle wind shivering through the Hand’s tower, insistently telling him that he ought to be preparing for a particularly cold season? If he thought back, they had recently endured a long summer. He was no prophet, but Shota could only assume the lengthy heatwave was to be explained with a lengthy freeze. This was probably another issue he would have to raise with King Toshinori, who would need to prepare to delegate funds towards starvation relief as a large portion of crops were likely to die from the sudden cold in this year’s harvests.

With a sigh, he continued on his way, one step at a time until he reached the bottom of the Hand’s tower. The Red Keep was a brilliant combination of red and gold, torches lighting up every walkway and guards positioned wherever one looked. It was just as Shota had arranged it, to ensure the king’s safety. The Red Keep was the ultimate defence against any level of attack. The only fault that Shota could identify would be if he himself decided to turn his back on King Toshinori and betray him to obtain the Iron Throne for himself. As it happened, though, the last thing Shota wanted was to be king, so that possibility was already out of the question. He barely wanted to be the Hand, but the position had been rather forced upon him when King Toshinori had revealed he had little faith in many other nobles. After that, he had had to uproot from the North and travel down to King’s Landing, reluctantly leaving Fort Shokyo in the careful hands of his aging mother and soldiers loyal to House Aizawa.

He finally reached the throne room, seeing the king himself seated on the Iron Throne. It was an ugly creation, blade upon blade piled high to make a seat, which had been melded into place. It had been made by one of the first Andal Kings, named Afo, known for his cruelty and ruthlessly. Afo the Awful, they called him now, though there were plenty of old tomes naming him as the Great King of Kings or the God King. The Iron Throne was the only remaining part of his presence, left behind when he had the steel of all those who rebelled against him melted into the seat in which he sat upon. Shota believed it should have been melted down alongside his death, although it had now become a relic of symbolism, where greater kings would sit upon Afo’s greatest creation which had once been designed for him alone.

King Toshinori was a mammoth of a man, standing leagues over the average man. Seated, he looked almost uncomfortable in the Iron Throne, his broad shoulders stretching beyond its width and his legs cramped together in an attempt to avoid being sliced by the sharp blades of which the Iron Throne was made of. The big man had a smile just as big to match his features, gleaming white teeth as he laughed and talked amongst those visiting court. He was the life of Westeros, the vibrant king the people had needed after the terrible demise of the previous monarch, Queen Nana of House Shimura. As soon as Shota had replaced Lord Nishi as the Hand, he had set about to creating King Toshinori’s image as a ‘Symbol of Peace’ to the people of Westeros. The man had filled those shoes perfectly as required, smiling to the people and telling the nobles that he was on their side. Thirty years of undisturbed peace, or so Shota would have liked people to believe.

There were always going to be people who could not accept the fall of House Shimura. It didn’t matter to some that Queen Nana had recognised Toshi as her adopted son. Over the course of his thirty year reign, there had been twelve major assassination attempts on King Toshinori’s life. Of course, none of them had been successful, as Shota had managed to route each of them out and have the perpetrators either quietly executed or sent to the Wall to become a member of the Night’s Watch. Behind the grace and kindness of King Toshinori was the ruthlessness of Lord Shota Aizawa. Things were better that way; things _worked_ that way.

“My King,” Shota knelt before King Toshinori once he strode towards the throne.

“Rise,” King Toshinori said pleasantly.

Shota climbed to his feet as instructed. “May I request a private audience?”

King Toshinori hesitated, before motioning for the Royal Guard to clear the room of the public. Disgruntled expressions appeared on faces, but it didn’t take long before it was just Shota, King Toshinori and the Royal Guard, stoically positioned around the room, standing as still as furniture.

“What is it, Shota?” Toshinori seemed willing to drop all formalities now that they weren’t under public scrutiny. Having worked together for so long, they had adapted somewhat friendly terms that the king had always lacked with Lord Nishi.

“Concerning your letter,” Shota held it up. “I wished to discuss your intentions.”

“Ah, the trials!” the king clapped his hands together with a wide grin. “I’m glad you’re on board. I was hoping that you and I would be able to draft up some challenges for the young men of West-”

“My King, I can’t support this,” Shota switched back to formalities, to emphasise that he was being serious.

For a moment, Toshinori seemed startled, frozen to the Iron Throne and rendered speechless. Shota could understand why. He had probably spent an entire night writing the letter, draft after draft until he felt the phrasing was _just right_. He could envision the king in his chambers, giddily chuckling to himself as the idea to test Westeros’ finest for the next heir arose in the recesses of his mind, something he wanted so desperately to put into practice. Shota was, essentially, crushing that small dream, but he felt it was a necessary price to pay for the sake of Westeros’ future.

“Selecting an heir is delicate business, and Queen Nana was very careful when she chose you- or so I am told,” Shota dipped his head in respect, before looking back at the king. “I can’t accept that you would willingly select an heir based on a few challenges. Games can be cheated at and those of nobility would have a greater advantage.”

He was choosing his words carefully, and they both knew it. Toshinori himself had come from nowhere, a man whose roots did not trace back to a noble House, or even the lowest of hedge knights. There was nothing remarkable about his ancestry, so it had come as a surprise when Queen Nana had raised him from thin air, proclaiming him as her heir and newly adopted son of House Shimura. Indeed, he was Lord Toshinori of House Shimura, and Shota would probably never know what his original name had been. Shota knew that Toshi would prefer to give the entirety of Westeros a chance, both noble and common.

“I don’t intend for the challenges to be solely based on combat,” Toshi eventually said. “I want trials that will help me define both strength _and_ character. I’m looking for a very specific individual, Shota, someone who stands out amongst no one and everyone at the same time.”

 _Someone like myself_.

The words were unspoken, but they were there. Shota could hear them ringing around his head as he deeply inhaled, gears in his brain churning as he hurriedly thought about ways to convince the king that his idea was a terrible one.

“My King, I might have a suggestion,” he eventually mustered, knowing the idea would be rejected, but he had to try it anyway. “You have not yet experiences fifty name days. You are still capable of having a son of your own.”

There was a long, drawn-out silence. Shota couldn’t imagine why Toshi would be so against the idea of having children of his own. It had been a matter that had been thrown around every now and then, as Shota was fully aware that Toshi didn’t have an heir. However, whenever he brought it up, Toshi would turn it against him, pointing out that Shota didn’t have an heir for House Aizawa, either. The conversation always went nowhere, but now seemed the perfect opportunity for him to bring it up.

“I do not wish to risk an heir who lacks all integrity,” King Toshinori finally concluded, shattering the silence as a glass goblet thrown against a wall might break. “I want the next King of the Andals and the First Men to be someone great, someone like Queen Nana Shimura, someone whom the people of Westeros can admire and respect. Whilst I would wish to be the greatest father to any son or daughter of mine, I can’t predict that they will be good people.”

“Then you ought to know the risks with your challenges,” Shota lowered his head once more, half out of respect, the other half to hide his disappointment. “You won’t see the full characters of any competitor. They will adopt a façade to make them more likable and they will choose whatever methods possible in order to win. You would need a good eye for deception, my King.”

“I have a good judge of character,” was all the king replied.

Trying not to grate his teeth, Shota continued. “You will also be demanding the full attention from the entirety of Westeros. The chances of attackers and assassins plotting against you will be increased, and some may even take on the guise of a competitor until they’re close enough to kill you. This is certainly my greatest concern out of them all.”

“I’ll know who I should and shouldn’t trust,” the king said.

Shota closed his eyes, wishing he could drill some sense into Toshi’s head. He sounded mad, the way he was willing to risk his life to hold a game rather than find a woman- _any woman_ \- and have a child with her.

“My final concern is that this news shall extend beyond Westeros and reach the ears of those in the Free Cities,” Shota explained. “I don’t need to tell you that any lord from Pentos, Braavos or Tyrosh would love to have control in both Essos _and_ Westeros.”

“I’ll definitely see through men like that,” Toshi snorted.

“And what about the boys they send forth acting on the pretence that they’re genuine when they’re just puppets of a man with a lot of money?” Shota demanded.

Toshi hesitated. It was enough to tell Shota that he hadn’t even thought people would attempt schemes such as that. He might claim he understood the workings of man, but Shota knew otherwise. Toshinori was one of the most trusting individuals he had ever met. It would be relatively easy to deceive him.

“I must do this, Shota,” Toshinori eventually said quietly.

Raising his head in disbelief, Shota was somewhat surprised to see the fiery determination in the king’s eyes. It was a look that told him he was fighting a losing battle, one that said King Toshinori had devoted himself to this idea. At the end of the day, the role of the King’s Hand was advisory. Toshi could ignore what Shota said if he so pleased; it just so happened that, up until this moment, their ideas had aligned. Now that there was a conflict of interest, Shota began to realise just how stubborn Toshinori was and just how little he was willing to listen to Shota.

“Very well,” Shota conceded, dipping his head just enough to pay his respects to the king. “In that case, you and I shall have to allocate some time in which we can discuss what we wish the trials to be like and what kind of individual you are looking for. After that, I shall draft the announcement and have it sent off across Westeros. Was there anything else you wished to discuss, my King?”

“Actually, yes,” there was a sudden jovial note to Toshinori’s voice. Shota was relieved to leave the iciness behind, so curiously looked up to see the twinkling blue of Toshi’s eyes. “When are _you_ going to get yourself a wife? Your poor mother will start complaining at this rate.”

Shota smiled despite himself, lowering his head to hide it. He should’ve expected that one. “Give me time.”

“Don’t wait until you’re an old man like me,” Toshi continued lightly. “You may leave if you wish, now.”

Shota nodded briefly, before raising his head and turning his back on the Iron Throne. As the doors opened, the Royal Guard willingly allowed the courtroom to fill up with life once more. Shota didn’t want to stay for the laughter. He was still in a somewhat sour mood now that he had to endanger the king’s life after spending so many years trying to save it.

This would be his twelfth name day at being the King’s Hand. It was almost the entirety of his life, as he had only been eight and ten when Toshinori had selected him. There were times like this, though, that Shota wished Lord Nishi were still present to monitor him, as he had in the first few moons. The relationship between Toshinori and Lord Nishi was somewhat complicated; the man was the closest thing to a father, acting as a stern older figure who dictated a lot of what Toshinori did. Shota knew that being the king’s friend rather than advisor did have its disadvantages. There were times when Toshi didn’t take him as seriously as he had done Lord Nishi, but there was also a strong bond of trust between them that Shota wouldn’t have traded for anything else. Their loyalty to one another had certainly helped them overcome a lot of problems in the past, such as the assassination plots, or allocating funds to different areas of Westeros.

Still, this was frustrating. Shota had never anticipated that Toshinori would be mad enough to go through with this idea. Despite him carefully listing the reasons why it was a bad idea, the king had still chosen to ignore him and initiate his trials and challenges. There were times when Shota wished the Hand held more authority to veto the king’s stupid plans, but such was not the case. He would have to write the damning letter and have it sent across Westeros. His main concern truly was the threat it posed to the king, as the people would flock to King’s Landing in droves. Shota was heavily questioning how they would be able to cull the numbers to a reduced, select few, and how King Toshinori would be able to determine who was worthy.

He didn’t immediately return to his chambers, instead stalking outside into the grounds of the Red Keep. Since it was a dismal day, the green grass did not look especially flattering and the trees seemed to stoop low, battered by the wind. Brilliant flowers arose from bushes, although their buds were now preparing to fall in the sudden turn of weather. He could see colours of red, white, yellow, violet and blue dancing at him, swaying under each breeze that passed by. A beautiful display that could possibly be filled with vagrants vying for the throne. Shota shook his head to himself, crunching along a stony footpath leading down to the far end of the grounds, the only place he could find solace in the strange culture of the south.

During her reign, Queen Nana had had a small godswood planted in the grounds, at the furthest point from the Red Keep. Shota had believed that the Old Gods of the Forest were a dead custom in the south and Lord Nishi had been quick to confirm those beliefs. Indeed, it was only in the North that the Old Gods of the Forest still held some kind of influence on nature and the people who lived there. Having grown up in the North, Shota worshipped the Old Gods, having remained as far away from the Seven as possible, unless public demonstrations required him to assist the king. This small shred of the North was the one thing that truly embodied Queen Nana’s legacy, for no other monarch paid much attention to the Old Gods. Lord Nishi had explained to Shota that Queen Nana had originated from the North, although he had not specified where. Whilst she herself mostly presented her faith as the Seven, for the sake of Westeros, he was told her heart was still of the North, her faith inclined towards the Old Gods.

He stopped in the middle of this manmade godswood. There was no heart tree amongst these weirwoods. Shota could understand why; only the Children of the Forest had carved the faces, with their gaping mouths and bleeding eyes. No modern man or woman had copied such a feet, as the bone-white trees remained, rooted in the northern soil for as long as Westeros had existed. It was unlikely that Queen Nana had wanted to emulate the Children of the Forest, who had been driven away by the Andals, for fear of angering the Old Gods, to whom the Children had been the first worshippers. Without a heart tree, Shota still felt somewhat lost standing amongst the weirwoods. Was it even a godswood, truly, if there was no heart tree? He didn’t think so, but because he didn’t want to feel abandoned by the Gods he cherished, he told himself that it was a godswood to some extent.

There was a central tree, taller than the others, that Shota believed would be a heart tree had it grown there naturally. He knelt before the faceless, white bark, closing his eyes to imagine the daunting faces that had surrounded him throughout his childhood. As a boy, he had spent many a day running through the white trunks, until he was called back in to study, or practice with a sword, or on a horse. In the North, he had been free. Now, he was committed to poring over letters and managing the king’s affairs. How times had changed. Adulthood was cold and colourless compared to childhood. He murmured to the Old Gods, knowing his words would never truly reach them without a heart tree, but hoping they might find them and help him protect the king and serve him as he may, to grant him the miracle of relieving the burden of the challenges and trials from his shoulders.

A gust of wind swept through the weirwoods, a whispered howl that sent a shiver through Shota’s body. He had learnt to wear lighter clothes in the south, as it was considerably warmer, but with this oncoming cold season, it would perhaps be wiser to don a thick fur cloak. Rising to his feet, he willed himself to continue with his duties. Even worship had become fragile in the busy schedule he was beginning to amass, which worried him. Shota had always been very loyal and pious towards the Old Gods. Being surrounded by the Faith of the Seven did make him uncomfortable from time to time. Clutching his cloak tight around his body, he made his way back towards the Red Keep, troubled by the news he was about to send out across Westeros.

In his chambers, he swiftly wrote down seven notes to be sent to each of the Seven Kingdoms. Shota’s hand felt stiff as he wrote one word after the other, but he managed to get the letters out in a legible state. He only just allowed time for the ink to dry before folding up each letter and dripping wax over the fold, stamping down the Hand’s seal should anyone question the authenticity of the letters. This was not the usual kind of letter; normally, he would find a raven and send it on its way, watching the black wings flap as it disappeared across the skies. However, he couldn’t do so with this letter, for he couldn’t send it to every commoner in the furthest points of Westeros. It was not possible to do such a thing, so Shota selected House Shimura’s seven finest messengers to be accompanied by four Royal Guards each, a number he deemed suitable for their safety and return.

With each given a letter, Shota sent them on their way, hoping the letters would reach the Seven Kingdoms in good time. He knew that King Toshinori was anxious to begin his trials as soon as possible. He deigned not to begin organising the trials until the messenger from the North returned, for he had the longest distance to travel, both there and back. Only then would he have to fully accept that the king would then begin selecting an heir for the Iron Throne of Westeros. He dreaded to think what kinds of characters he would soon be meeting. There would be many from the Riverlands, the Rocklands and the Stormlands arriving first, followed by those from Dorne and the Vale. He would have to assemble more guards, as the increase in population would likely cause more thefts and attacks, particularly in Flea Bottom. There was suddenly a lot more safety risks that he had to consider now that the letters had been sent forth.

Shota decided he would not have another audience with the king today. He would tell Toshinori tomorrow about the despatched letters. Shota couldn’t bear the thought of having another conversation about an event he dreaded, especially as he didn’t want to run the risk of straining his relationship with the king too much. With a long, drawn-out sigh, he made his way up the long Tower of the Hand, each step a drain on his energy. He had too much on his mind and more and more responsibilities were being piled upon him. Finally reaching the top, he slumped back down in his chair to continue writing the letter to Lord Asui. His heart was too heavy to be concerned with such matters, but if he didn’t reply soon, he would come across as rude and that was the last thing Shota wanted at the given moment.

Lord Asui was a northern nobleman, a fellow believer of the Old Gods. House Asui had always been close allies of House Aizawa. The former sat near the border between north and south, acting as messengers when the North was initially conquered by King Afo. For that reason, the two Houses ensured close contact, so Shota found the correspondence to be valuable, particularly as Lord Asui kept up a good report of what was happening in the North.

It would probably be best to include what was currently happening in King’s Landing, so Shota, dipping his quill in ink, jotted down the full details after the letter’s main purpose. He knew Lord Asui would be interested in the challenges, not to necessarily put his son forth as heir, but to assess who would vie most for the position. Shota folded up his letter, dripping wax over the fold and reaching for the seal of the Hand. His fingers hesitated, before he switched to the seal of House Aizawa, knowing full well that it would mean more to Lord Asui for him to do so. This was, after all, business that transcended beyond his duties of the Hand.

He carried his letter through the Red Keep before climbing up the maester’s tower, already hearing the shouts and cries of ravens up above. His echoing footsteps were most likely alerting them to his presence. At the top of the tower, he saw the robed figure of Grand Maester Yoritoki tending to the birds. The Grand Maester was a small man, just barely standing as tall as Shota’s chin. He had a long, white beard and the chains linked around his neck were numerous. He was not the oldest man alive, but he had certainly seen his fair share of monarchs pass him by. The Grand Maester was probably the oldest man that _Shota_ knew.

“Lord Aizawa,” he croaked, peering at Shota with dark eyes that saw very little. The man was almost blind, but had enough sight to live his daily life. “What brings you here?”

“A letter,” he handed it to the old man. “To be sent to Lord Asui.”

“Ah, I see,” the old man hobbled around the rookery, carefully selecting the raven had had trained to fly to Castle Kaeru, where House Asui lived. “Is this perhaps in concern of the cold that has suddenly swept through?”

Shota watched the Grand Maester. “You noticed, too?”

“Indeed, I did, just this morning,” Grand Maester Yoritoki rolled the letter up carefully, tying it to the raven’s leg. “A fearsome wind from the North. I haven’t felt a chill like that for quite a lot of years.”

“The letter doesn’t concern the changing seasons,” Shota remarked. “But I have noticed the rapid shift from summer to… winter.”

It was not a terrible Winter that would consume Westeros for many years. Shota had never experienced that, and never wished to. It was fabled that a Winter had once lasted a century, so long that the dead began to walk and the living began to fall. A myth, a legend, to scare the little green boys and summer children that had never seen a true cold season.

“I believe we have nothing to fear, though, my Lord Hand,” the old man bobbed his head, approaching the window, holding the flapping raven in his hands. “For I have not received a raven from Lord Commander Tsukauchi and an early winter often means a _short_ winter. At worst, it shall be a slightly longer winter, but that shan’t affect the king.”

Shota could envision the mass numbers of people across Westeros who _would_ be affected, though. Discontent would flourish across Westeros, undoubtedly, as food supplies dwindled, and starvation set in. That was bad news for King Toshinori, as the less satisfied the people were, the more likely they were to point their fingers towards the monarch. He would have to put an extra force of guards around the Red Keep and throughout King’s Landing, eyes peeled for suspicious figures that could be deemed a threat to the king.

“Don’t let the winds trouble you,” naturally, the Grand Maester had seen the crease in Shota’s brow. “These are but northern winds coming south. The children will be _lucky_ if they even get to _see_ snow.”

“You’re right,” Shota watched as the maester carried the disgruntled raven towards the window. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

He watched as the raven took flight from Grand Maester Yoritoki’s hands, feathers riding on the wind, wings outstretched, as it made its journey to the North.


	3. Izuku

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have our man of the hour, none other than the protagonist of the BNHA universe! I quite enjoyed writing this chapter, just getting the perspective from someone a little lower down on the social hierarchy. Also, Deku is just unbelievably sweet- please give him all the lemon cakes.

**When he had found the expensive looking shawl lying on the dirt-track road on his way back home after working on the fields, he had rushed home with it trailing in his hand, ready to tell his mother that they could sell it for good money.** Although he now clasped it in muddied hands from rooting what potatoes had managed to grow from the ground, he knew it could be easily washed and sold at any marketplace. His scuffed and broken shoes carried him along the dusty footpath, warming his cheeks up against the cold weather as he dashed past other men making their dreary way back to Hobswood. He probably shouldn’t have been running, as that would only consume more energy they couldn’t live up to with the rations they had begun to set aside now that the weather was growing colder. Izuku’s mother had always been good at predicting the weather. She would sometimes wake up before the birds and stand outside for several hours before deducting that they did indeed need to start saving food in order to survive the harsher seasons.

But with the shawl in his hands, Izuku was more than positive that they would be able to buy supplies at the markets when the winds grew brittle and cold. He could feel the soft sheen of its silk in his hands, the pale colour of pink pearl shimmering under the autumn sun, and the delicate white embroidery spelling out patterns of flowers in the most delicate of hands. What he had found was quite something, discarded on the side of the road as if it held little importance. He supposed that one man’s trash was another’s treasure and treasure it dearly he did. This was going to bring in a large amount of income that would keep he and his mother in a safe position against the oncoming cold. It was especially difficult for them as Izuku was the only man in the family, and he had only just reached manhood last summer. With the absence of his father, they may have had less mouths to feed, but labour-intensive work, which is where more money was gained, was more difficult for his mother, whose small figure sometimes bent beneath the weight of barrels. She preoccupied herself with crafts to make up for it, although whenever Izuku came home, sweaty from work, he could see the flicker of anxiety on her face, the constant worry that she wasn’t providing enough for the family. He believed the shawl would change things; she could market it and, depending on the product’s popularity, could use the money to invest in similar crafts. It was silk, so people would pay a lot for it. Fine silks such as this were only available from across the Narrow Sea, exported to market places and sold at unimaginable prices.

As he sprinted down the hill that led to his hometown, he was met with the magnificent view of poor, wooden buildings slumped together in a somewhat sad little pile. Their thatched rooves had perhaps seen better days, now looking wind-worn and ready to collapse should a storm come along. The wooden panelling of which the houses consisted of was the only thing keeping them upright. The roads were cobbled, so he made sure not to get his foot caught in the crevices. He didn’t dare trip and break the shawl in the process. Chickens skittered out of his way, clucking angrily before returning to their ground pecking. Heads nodded towards him as faces recognised him, the boy who had lost his father to the seas. Indeed, Izuku’s father had not simply vanished. When Izuku was just a small child, barely able to remember his father’s face, the man had took off in order to explore the world beyond the Narrow Sea. Unfortunately, he had never returned. It had been more than safe to assume that, more than a decade later, he wouldn’t miraculously make an appearance. Learning about his death had somehow consoled Izuku as he grew older; he would rather his father have died an honourable death rather than turning on his heels and abandoning his family.

His home was towards the end of the village, across the road from the bakery. His mother had tried her hardest to make it more comfortable and appealing, often replacing the drapes over the windows with hand-sewn curtains. His mother was constantly fighting the battle of deterioration, refusing to allow their house to fall into a neglected ruin. It was the only home Izuku had known and the only one he _wanted_ to know. Bursting through the front door, he charged across the room, spreading the shawl out across the small, wooden table the two of them shared to break their fast and eat before sleeping. His mother was seated at one of the chairs, quietly threading her needle through her latest creation.

“What’s this?” she asked, her eyes widening at the sight of such a beautiful piece of fabric. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it,” Izuku said proudly. “After work, it was on the side of the road. If you wash this, we can sell it at the market.”

His mother looked doubtful as she assessed the fabric. “It is very nice, but… Whoever left it there is probably searching for it.”

“It was left on the side of the road,” Izuku protested. “It’s as good as ours, now. Nobody in Hobswood could afford something like this.”

“Apart from Lady Bakugo,” his mother looked deeply concerned. “I truly think you ought to bring this to the Bakudan and present it to the guards there yourself. If no one recognises it, then so be it, keep it.”

“I think they would take it anyway,” Izuku muttered under his breath.

“Go and see if the guards will take it,” his mother insisted. “I won’t be accused of theft and I certainly won’t let my son wear that title, either. Just because you hold some grudge against Lord Katsuki doesn’t mean you should go stealing his mother’s shawls.”

“I _don’t_ have a grudge against _Lord_ Katsuki, and I definitely don’t steal his mother’s clothes,” Izuku grumbled, but rolled the shawl into a sausage, preparing to do as his mother instructed.

His mother suddenly huffed. “You wore your shoes indoors. I swept the floors this morning.”

Izuku glanced down and saw the dust he’d brought in on his scuffed cloth shoes. Since he was already under fire from his mother’s harsh eye, he fled the room, ducking out of the door once more. He was admittedly sour that she had rejected the shawl, since he was certain they could gain far more than copper coins by selling it. Still, his mother had made her decision and he knew she would refuse to lay her hands on it unless that entailed giving it back to its rightful owner. Izuku was tempted to take the shawl and sell it himself, on the sly, but he knew it wasn’t worth angering his mother over something so trivial.

As he was leaving, he almost bumped into Yui Kodai, a girl of the same age as him that he had taken to spending time with over the years. She had approached the door, as if about to knock and make her quiet presence known. There was nothing romantic between them, but Izuku definitely found her to be attractive, with her straight, dark hair and blue eyes just as dark, framed with heavy lashes. It was a stark contrast to her pale skin. She was very quiet, a shyness that seemed to have followed her throughout their early childhood up until now. He recalled the days of the past when the four of them would run around the woods, catching fireflies and “fairies”. Izuku believed that he would likely end up asking Yui to marry him once they were both considered ready. He knew her very well and they were of a similar age. He liked to think she would say yes, but she was difficult to read, so it was hard to tell.

“Sorry,” Yui took an involuntary step backwards, making space between them. “I thought I’d just… You must’ve heard the news.”

“The news?” Izuku cast her a curious glance, closing his front door and stepping away from his house.

“In that case, we still have time,” Yui’s face almost lit up, more with astonishment than joy. “If we run to the town centre, they might not have started the announcement yet.”

Curious and confused, Izuku followed Yui in a jog when she began to run up the hill that led to the village’s well. He could hear a bell in the distance, a loud clanging that called for people’s attention. Speeding up, the two of them scrambled to the top until the ground flattened out and running became easier. Izuku almost immediately spotted the tall figure of Rikido, the baker boy who lived across the road from him, another friend since the early days of childhood. He was a good few heads taller than most other men around him, able to see beyond the crowds. Izuku wasn’t as lucky, as he and Yui were often drowned out by crowds.

“I’ve got an idea,” he whispered to Yui, who nodded and followed him as he dashed to the side of the road.

In the town centre was a blacksmith, a stable, and plenty of market stalls for vegetables and other rare collectables. It was the stables that Izuku was more interested in, running around the back of the wooden building. It was here that he heaved and pushed a cart towards the big, blocks of hay that were lined on the back of the stables. Izuku had done this many a time, much to the chagrin of his mother and the owner of the stables. Aligning the empty cart with the hay, he clambered inside, with Yui following after him. The bell was still ringing, so he believed they had plenty of time before the announcement would be made.

He gave Yui a leg up to get on the hay bales and clawed his own way on top, the wheat scratching at his knees and arms as he scrambled up after her. Yui had already climbed on top of the stables and Izuku wasn’t far behind, hauling himself up with a final push. The wood was rough on his sweaty palms, but he pulled himself along, up the slanted roof and hefting himself over so he could peer down at the village centre.

Now that they had a good vantage point, Izuku was amazed to see the entirety of Hobswood had converged to this very point, dirtied faces and dark eyes watching a man seated atop a white horse, waving the bell pointedly around. In his hand, he was clutching a letter, although since Izuku couldn’t read, that wasn’t much of a focus for him. What he was more intrigued by were the four armoured soldiers standing in close distance of the messenger, swords at their hips but prepared to attack if need be. He had never seen a soldier so close before, since patrols didn’t extend to this area of the Reach.

Notably, he also saw House Bakugo standing to one side, nearby the guards. Their own soldiers were also present, an additional layer of defence as they stood dressed in their finer clothes compared to the rags of everyone else. Immediately, Izuku picked out Lord Katsuki Bakugo standing to the side of his parents, spiky ash blonde hair ruffled by the wind as he kept his gaze fixated on the messenger who was now toning down the rings of his bell. There was an almost solemn expression on his face, one of grave concentration that mirrored the looks on both Lord and Lady Bakugo. Usually, he was filled with fiery rage or determination, so this was a look that Izuku wasn’t used to. Or maybe it had just been so long since he had seen or spoken with Katsuki that the bond they had once had was no longer there.

There were three people whom Izuku didn’t recognise. Considering Hobswood was such a small and somewhat isolated place, that didn’t make a lot of sense to Izuku. He knew everyone who lived in the villages and even the merchants who passed by frequently, but he had never seen these three people before. The man and the woman didn’t catch his attention all that much, the way they stood in the background watching almost anxiously at whatever the messenger had come to announce. Though they were dressed in fine clothes, they certainly weren’t relatives of House Bakugo, otherwise Izuku was near certain he would’ve seen them before. Still, the unrecognisable woman had drawn close to Lady Bakugo, as if the two were familiar with one another.

The last face that Izuku found himself fixated on was a young woman dressed in a fine pink gown, hair cut surprisingly short for a woman. Her cheeks were colourful and healthy, her face young and round, her eyes wide and a chocolate brown. Like those she stood with, she looked concerned, clutching on to the unfamiliar man’s arm as if he were her lifeline- her father, most likely. Izuku was stricken by how pretty and delicate she looked, dressed in her fine clothes and her skin clean and unblemished. She probably had smooth hands that had avoided the callouses of work.

The messenger’s bell faded in sound as he lowered it. “I have an announcement from King Toshinori himself.”

Izuku automatically glanced at Yui. Never before had something like this happened. The king was a distant, nearly nameless figure who had had nothing to do with Hobswood in the past. Whilst he saw no reason for the king to take sudden interest in this area of Westeros, he was intrigued by the messenger’s presence. It now made sense that House Bakugo had deemed this a worthy moment to make themselves present.

The messenger pulled open his letter, breaking open a wax seal, before stretching the parchment out to read what is said. As he spoke, his voice echoed and danced across the silent houses.

“King Toshinori, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, King of the Seven Kingdoms, calls upon Westeros in order to find a suitable heir,” the messenger proclaimed. “Any young man capable of walking and talking who wishes to be next in line for the Iron Throne must make their way to King’s Landing, where they shall face a number of trials the king himself shall select. Only the most worthy will be chosen by King Toshinori as heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros. You will have an entire season to reach King’s Landing and prepare to present yourself before the king.”

He rolled the letter back up in his hands, raising his chin in an important manner. A grave silence filled the village of Hobswood as the guards prepared to leave and continue their journey onwards through Westeros. Izuku’s mouth felt dry. “Any young man” would surely have included people like him, opposed to just the nobles such as Katsuki. He was sure that man men would begin to flock towards King’s Landing in droves. In some ways, that deeply worried Izuku. The thought of towns and villages draining down in populations was worrying; less men meant less income, or perhaps women would have to work long hours on the fields, too. But what would that mean for young children and the elderly, who required the care and attention of their mothers and younger relatives? It was such a precarious time of the year, too. Now that the seasons were gradually getting colder, populations were bound to drop, but with mass migration to King’s Landing, wouldn’t more resources be prioritised there? What about rural places, such as Hobswood? What kinds of food stock were they expecting? Izuku suddenly felt far less need to check if the shawl he had tucked under his arm belonged to Lady Bakugo.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Yui let herself slide off the side of the roof, landing on the hay bales. “In fact, it sounds very bad.”

“You’re right,” Izuku followed her.

“To be honest, I was worried for a moment,” she looked relieved. “I thought you’d be racing down the roof and hurrying to King’s Landing as soon as possible.”

“Me?” Izuku blinked, astonished.

Yui nodded uncomfortably. “You’ve always had this certain drive about you, as if no opportunity could hinder you.”

The way she spoke reminded him of how his father _sounded_. Izuku ignored the chill that threatened to run along his spine, although he could never fathom being like that man.

“I wouldn’t leave my mother,” he insisted. “She needs me here. I’m more useful working on the fields or around the town rather than running around after a title I’ve never really thought much about before.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yui looked like she meant it.

Leaping down from the hay bales, he planted both feet on the cart. Izuku helped Yui down from the hay, before the two of them raced back around to see the crowd had begun to disperse. They were looking for Rikido, who’s head could be seen over everyone else’s. Sure enough, they caught sight of his brown spikey hair as he wandered down the hill, back towards the bakery. Izuku led the way, shouldering past others in order to reach their friend, with Yui holding on to the back of his shirt just to prevent getting separated in the moving masses. When he finally broke free of the crowd and called out the baker boy’s name, he was glad to reunite with the third member of his friends.

“Izuku, Yui, you heard what he said, right?” Rikido hastily stepped aside from the crowds to one side of the street.

“You’re not going to go for it, are you?” Izuku asked nervously. “I’m not.”

“I’m _definitely_ not,” Rikido paled. “I guarantee that those trials include jousting, sword-fighting and probably a bit of sailing, all of which I can’t do. I’d rather not risk my life for a title that I don’t think I would ever be able to achieve.”

All of those things sounded fatal to Izuku. Not that it mattered anyway, since he didn’t intend on leaving his mother behind for some trivial trial. He was relieved that things in Hobswood wouldn’t change. The three of them could continue to pass by one another, as if nothing had happened.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that the king has suddenly issued this, though?” Rikido asked. “Do you think the king is dying?”

The statement came as a shock to Izuku. He had never seen the king before, but when people spoke of ‘King Toshinori’, he envisioned someone strong and infallible. It was an image he could associate with any king.

“I don’t think so,” Yui said. “I think he’s unable to father children with his own seed and has therefore chosen an alternative route.”

“I suppose that would make more sense,” Rikido admitted. “Anyway, I must get back to the bakery. My parents wanted me to report what the commotion was about. Feel free to tag along. I’m sure my mother might have found some form of gossip concerning the king’s situation.”

With a small nod, Izuku trotted along after Rikido. It was true that Rikido’s mother was at the centre of gossip, often taking goods from the bakery to a marketplace at the Grassy Vale once a week. She learned a lot from the people who passed through there and came back with a bounty of information. Izuku had learnt a lot from Rikido’s mother over the years, so another day of gossip wasn’t going to harm him.

They reached the bottom of the hill and entered the bakery. At once, Izuku’s senses were flooded with the warm smell of bread and rolls and pastries and cakes. The Sato family were the greatest bakers Izuku had ever known. They may have been the only ones, too, but that was beside the point. He always took great joy was from seeing and smelling what they had in store. The Sato family earned a lot of money from Hobswood for the bread they made. Three copper pennies for a loaf, five copper pennies for a lemon cake, which Izuku rarely bought unless it was for his mother’s name day. She loved lemon cakes, so he was always willing to put aside a tiny bit of money to save up each year.

“Rikido! You’re back,” his mother was sweeping around the ovens, face red as she worked herself to keep the bread coming. Rikido’s father was, presumably, in the back of the shop, silently kneading dough with his large hands. “I want you to lather the uncooked loafs with butter, since we have more in stock and that means the bread will have an extra crunch.”

She then noticed the two others standing with her son, fat lips turning up into a broad smile. Rikido looked almost identical to his mother, although she was far shorter and rounder by comparison. Owning the bakery meant their income was greater than the average cropper and they had more food at spare. Izuku rarely felt resentful, though, since Rikido’s mother always gave them a bread roll whenever they came by. She did so now.

“Eat up,” she demanded, just as the door blew open once more with the sound of hurried footsteps and panted breaths.

Izuku turned around and stilled in surprise. Standing there was none other than the pretty girl with the short brown hair. Up close, she looked more real and less like a painted, porcelain doll, but that didn’t make her any less attractive. In fact, the light sweat on her forehead from running and how her cheeks had taken on a redder hue were just as attractive to Izuku, if not more. She had suddenly become tangible in his eyes, close enough to touch, rather than an object to be seen from afar. Pushing her hair out of her face and regaining her breath, Izuku wondered what she was doing in the humble Sato bakery.

“S-sorry,” she huffed. “I didn’t mean to come barging in like that.”

“Not a worry, my lady,” Rikido’s mother curtsied and Yui clumsily copied her with her ragged dress. Izuku hastily bowed his head in a swift, quick motion, hoping not to cause disrespect.

“I just saw you going down the hill and I thought I would never catch up if I didn’t run,” she continued, still breathless as she struggled to speak. “I don’t know my way around here all that well, so-” She inhaled deeply. “-I had to speak with you today.”

It took Izuku a moment to realise she was speaking to him, but her chocolate brown eyes were focused on him alone. Now that she was standing less than a metre away, he could see how short she was, smaller than Yui, even. He rarely met adults who could only reach his nose in height.

“I-it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he bowed again.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed, and it was melodic. “I haven’t needed to run like that in quite some time.”

“Uh, what was it that you needed?” Izuku felt his cheeks going warm and dearly hoped he wasn’t turning pink in the face. That was the last thing he needed.

“My shawl,” she smiled. “It blew away in the wind just as the carriage was arriving at the Bakudan, and I thought I’d never see it again.”

“Sure,” he offered it to her, dismayed that he could no longer sell it.

“Thank you so much,” she smiled and her entire face brightened up because of it. She was like the sun. “Really, my grandmother gifted this to me before she passed, so it means so much to me.”

Izuku hastily pushed away the sour feeling of guilt that had begun to rise in his throat like bile. To think he had been considering selling an item that was precious to someone. He watched as she draped it over her shoulders, unperturbed by the dirt and mud that clung to it.

“Here,” she began to rummage in a small pouch she had strapped at her waist. “As a token of my gratitude.”

She took his hand, much to Izuku’s shock, and pressed something cold into his palm. Her hands were so soft as she curled his fingers over it to make sure he didn’t drop it. When he outstretched his palm once more, he saw a beautiful silver coin, one that he’d never seen before. Turning it over in his hands, Izuku’s eyes bulged to see the moon minted on the back. _A moon_. She had given him a silver moon, just for picking up a shawl. This would feed both he and his mother for an entire moon, maybe more.

“It really doesn’t warrant _that much_ ,” Izuku raised his head and saw Katsuki had ducked into the door, hands in his pockets as he approached. He extended a hand towards Izuku, eyes boring into his soul.

“Kacchan,” Izuku said the nickname without thinking, the small fragment of their childhood that he might still hold on to.

“That’s _Lord Katsuki_ to you,” Katsuki replied coolly. “Hand it over, Deku.”

Even after all this time, they still couldn’t help calling one another the same things they did so long ago. Forlornly, Izuku passed the moon to the other boy, who gave it back to the girl without so much as looking at her. She took it almost shyly, dropping the beautiful silver coin back into the pouch she carried with her. Izuku couldn’t help but silently despair that the money had been immediately lost as soon as it had been gained.

“He didn’t _make_ the shawl, he _found_ it,” Katsuki dropped a silver stag, a week’s worth of wages, into Izuku’s palm. “And I doubt he had many intentions of finding who it belonged to.”

In the past, he might have protested, but Izuku was no longer close enough to Katsuki to do so. He could lose his tongue for back-chatting a noble. Besides, Katsuki was right. Izuku had purposefully kept it to himself in order to sell.

“Let’s go,” Katsuki headed towards the door. “Our parents still have some things to discuss, and I’d rather be there to hear the proceedings.”

“O-of course,” the girl began to follow before she paused in the doorway, as if considering something. However, she looked at Izuku with another wide smile. “Thanks.”

He watched her disappear through the door, his silver stag burning into his palm. A week’s wages, and since the season seemed to be shifting to winter, he doubted it would really go that far. Still, it was _something_. Whilst Katsuki had shredded the girl’s attempt to act generously, it wasn’t like he had left Izuku with _nothing_.

“What a terrible attitude,” Rikido’s mother was shaking her head, disappointed. “It’s behaviour like that which enables mutinies to fester. The young Lord Katsuki had better improve his behaviour before he inherits the name of House Bakugo.”

“I wasn’t expecting a payment, so…” Izuku smiled down at the stag. “It’s something.”

“Yes, but a stag isn’t quite the same as a moon,” Yachi Sato said patiently. “Here. Have a lemon cake.”

“That’s really not-”

“Take it,” the woman pressed the sweet delicacy into his hands. “And eat it. Or give it to your mother. Do whatever. It hardly equates to a moon, but if you’re ok with ‘something’, then a lemon cake should suit you fine.”

Izuku tried not to, but he chuckled as he took the cake. It looked delicious. He normally gave them to his mother, but he knew she would refuse this one and let him eat anyway, so he saw no point in taking it home.

“That young woman was Lady Ochako of House Uraraka,” Rikido’s mother informed the three of them. “Noble, but a very small family that wouldn’t be able to offer all that much to one of the great noble houses. From what I heard in the market, Lord and Lady Bakugo are looking for someone who Lord Katsuki can marry.”

That made sense to Izuku. Katsuki was five and ten; he was a man and, in the eyes of nobles, marriage had to happen as soon as possible in order to heighten the chances of an heir to the title.

“Anyway, you two run along,” Rikido’s mother glanced at Yui and Izuku. “I’m sure you don’t want to squander the rest of your day watching Rikido working.”

Nodding, they hurried off. Without needing to speak to one another, Yui and Izuku climbed a hill towards the woods that gave Hobswood its name. They climbed up onto the low branches, sitting with one another as Izuku broke the lemon cake in half and shared it with Yui.

“He’s really quite different now, isn’t he?” he didn’t need to ask her to know she was talking about Katsuki. “What he did back there was rather cruel.”

Izuku didn’t know what to say. A long time ago, when they were small children, they had all played in these very same woods together. However, as they got older, Katsuki _had_ become colder towards him, until eventually, Izuku rarely saw him altogether. None of them did, and Katsuki had seemed more than keen to burn to the bridge that had once connected the four of them.

“Do you remember when we used to play with the fairies?” Yui was gazing around, dark eyes almost soft now that they were away from other people. She was more vocal when she was away from crowds.

Izuku did remember the ‘fairies’. They were a thing he’d made up when they were children, insisting that there were tiny glowing creatures dancing amongst the tree tops, things that performed magical feats, no matter how small. Of course, thinking back, he had probably deceived his friends into believing that the _fireflies_ were fairies.

“I sometimes wish I could turn back time,” Yui continued, contemplating the trees around them. “Things were far less complicated back then.”

Izuku nodded, half-listening as he looked around the woods that surrounded Hobswood. The silver stag was warm in his pocket, promising a better food supply for when winter crashed in. He looked at Yui, seeing the serene expression on her face as the wind ruffled her black locks and it really did dawn on him just how fast time had passed them by. He remembered all of their round, baby faces, when Yui had once been taller than he and Katsuki, and how they had tried their hardest to catch the glittering fireflies and “fairies”.

He would probably ask Yui to marry him next year. It was, after all, just another result of the passing hours.


	4. Momo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am proud to bring the lovely Momo into the mix of characters. I think Momo is definitely one of my favourite characters, because she reminds me a lot of myself. I'm a big worrier myself, but I also love reading and learning, as well as having a creative mind! It was only a matter of time before I got to implementing her character into this Fic, and I've got the perfect position for her in this setting.
> 
> On another note, it is Izuku Midoriya's birthday today! It's a shame that I didn't happen to post **his** chapter today, but things can't always be perfect, can they? Happy birthday, Deku! If you look at Horikoshi's twitter, he's retweeted a parody of Inko and Deku doing the All Might "Save me" "I am here" scene, except with Kacchan and Mitsuki. I don't know if it's for Deku's birthday, as I can't read the caption, but it's really funny and seriously made my day!
> 
> ********
> 
> Anyway, Momo's time to shine!
> 
> ********

**Although it was colder, it was still not too frozen to sit outside beneath the trees, a book in hand.** Birds were twittering, some perched on branches overhead and others soaring through the sky, the freedom of their wings bringing them across the wind. It was such a beautiful and natural sight that, for a moment, Momo was completely distracted and lost her place on the page. The script was tiny, and she had been carefully working her way along, only to forlornly trace her eyes along each line until she found the word she wanted. It was not the usual thing she read, a detail account on the developing spice trade originating from a faraway city in Essos known as Qarth. Her maester back at home had provided her with plenty of books following the wedding, knowing that she wouldn’t settle until she had parchment and leather to stick her nose in. This was a particularly old book and, in her maester’s handwriting on the first, empty page, had supposedly been brought into Westeros by a Qartheen merchant who had written the book himself. In other words, it was one of a kind and it now rested in her hands. It was all the more reason for her to read it, to absorb the knowledge and pass it on to someone else.

She was currently on the Todoroki estate, in the grounds surrounding Castle Kasai Kori. Not long after the wedding, it had been announced that they would travel to the residence of House Todoroki for a reunion of some kind. It wasn’t a full reunion, as House Iida were unable to attend, and it was more inclined towards business associates and allies of House Todoroki. Momo had been here plenty of times throughout her childhood. Her own family were very close, with both Lady Todoroki and Lady Yaoyorozu the unfamiliarity of the south, given one had come from the North and the other originated from across the Narrow Sea. Moreover, the sheer masses of wealth that House Yaoyorozu possessed had always led House Todoroki to express their desire for an alliance, which Lord Yaoyorozu had been more than happy to form. Indeed, Momo had spent may a day in her childhood running around the planes with the children of House Todoroki. She recalled the five of them, all four Todorokis and her, playing hide and seek amongst the grassy lanes that made up the grounds of Castle Kasai Kori. Of course, that had been before the great Todoroki Fire that had left Lord Todoroki short of his eldest son. A tragic death indeed.

Momo forced herself to look back at her book, drawing her mind away from the day when the terrible news had reached her father by raven. House Todoroki had relocated for a few years until the castle had reviewed repairs and reconstruction. The memories would always be there, though. Whenever she glanced towards the footpaths into the gardens, she remembered hiding amongst blackberry bushes, peering over the edge with a nervously excited smile whenever Toya would pass by, calling out their names as if expecting to find them. He always left her for last, because she was the guest, and would make a large show of pretending he had no idea as to where she was hiding, before turning to look at her with brilliant turquoise eyes. Whenever she thought about him, a great sadness would wash over her, and she would try and expel all thoughts of Toya from her mind.

“ _There_ you are,” the familiar voice caused a roiling in her stomach and she tried to keep her face pressed in the book, as if trying to pretend she hadn’t heard him. “Of course you have your face pressed into a pile of paper.”

A hand reached down and plucked it from her grasp, forcing her to pay attention to the boy who was talking to her. She would never be able to look into the face of Neito Monoma and say for sure that he was a ‘man’. He always wore the look of a smug child who had just told his parents about a misbehaving sibling. It was a far cry from her idea on what was ‘mature’ and ‘immature’. Momo had come outside for a quiet nose around her book and she was already being pestered by the man she had to call her husband. They had only been married for about a moon and Momo was already very fed up of him. His attitude and demeanour were unpleasant and, even if he was handsome, he acted like it and used it as a means of boasting to other people. He even acted as if Momo herself was a boast, rather than a person, a woman, a wife. Momo was viewed as one of the most beautiful women in Westeros and perhaps the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. It was her tall, slim figure and the long, raven black hair that contrasted heavily with milk white skin. Her eyes were also fiercely dark, and her image was appealing to a lot of painters who wished to depict her in their portraits. Neito used this, presenting her as an object to be desired and lusted after, the woman that every man wanted, and every woman wanted to be. He self-branded them as the most beautiful Lord and Lady across the known world, something that irritated Momo time and time again. All the while, he resented her thirst for knowledge, despised the books she loved, and hated her desire to see and know more about Westeros and Essos and unexplored continents. In return, she never looked nor touched him in bed and often insisted she sleep in a separate room, calling upon a girlish charm to present herself as innocent and naïve in the face of married life. It always worked, but she knew the fantasy couldn’t last. Eventually, Neito would want heirs and, as his wife, she would be obliged to give them. Looking at him, with his pale grey eyes and languid smirk, made her worry she would even resent her own children if they bore any resemblance to him.

“Why are you reading something like this?” Neito was flicking through the pages and hers was long lost. “This is something a maester with a long white beard should be reading, not someone beautiful and young such as yourself. I’ll get you something more to your calibre; one of those fictional story books.”

Momo tried not to look disdainful. It was hard when she wanted to tell him to leave her alone but couldn’t. Instead, she kept her breathing even and let him close the book, taking away the last pieces of her home away from her.

“Stop sulking,” he held out his hand for her. “There’s no point in you reading your years away. Come speak with House Todoroki.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, when she really wanted to tell him, “I’m not four.”

Ignoring his extended hand, she rose to her feet, dusting off her skirts and keeping her spine straight. She liked that she was an inch taller than Neito, but only because she knew it bothered him. He would never say so, but he would lean forward onto the balls of his feet, raising his chin to try and get some leverage against her. The only reason Momo took so much joy from it was because she disliked him so much. She took a lot of silent joy from making him aware of his insecurities, even if it wasn’t the right thing to do. She was bound to him by name and would be for the rest of her life. She would do whatever she could to maintain her independence, no matter how much he tried to take it.

“Remember that House Todoroki are having you here on a courtesy,” Neito raised his chin as they began to walk.

He clearly had no idea what he was talking about. House Todoroki and House Yaoyorozu were close allies. They hadn’t needed House Monoma to bridge any form of alliance between them. It was just a way for him to feel more powerful than her. Whilst House Monoma was well-connected and had made strong connections with plenty of southern noble houses, both new and old, House Yaoyorozu were astoundingly wealthy, having acquired material goods from her father’s travels and expanding their reach into trading markets with Pentoshi merchants. In fact, House Yaoyorozu were one of the wealthiest of the noble houses, whence it had also become such an achievement for Neito to have married Momo. She was valued by money and beauty, but her intellect was entirely overlooked by all men.

The grounds of Castle Kasai Kori were beautiful. There was so much grass, verdant and short that rippled like a green pond as the wind danced across the earth, bowing the grass in perfect synchronisation, like thousands falling down on their knees to pray. Cherry blossom trees, which were so rare to find across Westeros, could only be found in the Todoroki heartland. Their pink flowers only lived during a few days in the spring season before withering for the rest of the year or remaining a subdued green. Momo believed cherry blossom trees were her favourite, for they bloomed in order to die; it was a beautiful tragedy. In this particularly cold autumn, they were beginning to lose their foliage, stripping bare in order to prepare for hibernation and conserve their energy. Soon, Westeros would look dull and dead, a picture that resembled what the northernmost parts were supposedly like. Momo had never been to the North, but she had read about snow and how it was far colder up there no matter the season. A centrepiece of House Todoroki’s splendorous grounds was the rose garden, with its thorny bushes and red and white buds. Marble statues with blind eyes watched you in the rose garden, yet they could never utter a word about what actions you performed.

Neito steered her indoors, taking her away from the beauty of nature and sealing her inside Castle Kasai Kori. It was a beautiful castle, needless to say, but there was nothing more appealing than the outdoors world. A lot of people had likened this behaviour to her mother, who originated from Myr, but had travelled over to Westeros at a very young age. With her Westerosi and Myrish heritage, it was no wonder that many believed Momo to be exotic and beautiful; she was the product of two continents. Her mother still had an adventurer’s spark in her eye, enjoying the opportunities to travel Westeros whenever she could. Momo recalled the stories of sailing that her mother told her when she was just a child: the thrashing waves of the ocean with their terrifically exciting windstorms; the green nectar so popular in Myr as well as the unmatchable and perfectly crafted paintings and sculptures; the blue skies that were forever uninterrupted by clouds. It was faraway world, but Momo had silently craved to be a part of it.

She belonged to the Westerosi culture, though. No matter how much she longed to see the Myrish coast, she would always be Lady Momo Monoma, restricted by her marital status and the need to please both House Monoma and Yaoyorozu.

“Momo!” a tiny girl’s voice echoed through the hall, accompanied by padding footsteps. “Momo!”

Immediately looking down, Momo bent down to catch the plodding toddler in her arms, smiling as she did so. Waves of shoulder-length blonde hair tumbled around the child’s head as small hands clutched at Momo’s dress. Yoko Todoroki didn’t look anything like a Todoroki; the red hair and turquoise eyes were completely absent, and even the white and grey colour scheme of Lady Todoroki hadn’t found their way to this child’s genes. Instead, she looked near identical to her mother, blonde hair and large magenta eyes beaming up at Momo as she babbled the way toddlers were wanting to do. Although her speech had rapidly improved the past year, she was still unable to form long sentences and a lot of the things she uttered didn’t make sense. Momo strongly believed that she only remembered her name because of the short, repetitive syllables it consisted of. Momo was very easy to say, just as Yoko was. At only three years old, it was not yet apparent to Yoko that she was part of one of the greatest noble houses in Westeros. How old would Yoko be before her own freedom was taken away from her, when a husband was selected for her before she could ride a horse?

“Sorry, Momo, she’s at the stage where she thinks she can just run off,” Natsuo Todoroki’s voice carried across the hallway and she raised her head to see the second youngest Todoroki child rushing up to lift his daughter in his arms, her pudgy limbs squirming.

There were plenty of ways in which Natsuo Todoroki hadn’t changed in the slightest. He had always been tall, but all Todorokis were and he was no exception as a result of this. His grey eyes were just as round and innocent as they had been when he was a child. His white hair fluffed upwards, an uncontainable pile of messy strands that never looked presentable. His smile was just as bright and easy-going. And yet, there were also plenty of things that had long since changed. They weren’t so much physical, but he was holding a young girl he had fathered, even though he was barely a man himself. Moreover, the weight of the Todoroki name rested on his shoulders as the eldest son of House Todoroki. She was sure that it acted as a constant reminder of Toya.

“Lord Neito, always a pleasure,” Natsuo smiled, balancing Yoko in one arm to reach out and shake Neito’s hand.

“Always,” Neito returned the smile. “She’s grown quite a lot since we last saw her.”

“Yes,” Natsuo puffed out his cheeks, juggling his whining daughter in his arms. “She has. And she’s also gotten far more difficult to hold because of it. The carrying will definitely have ended by next year, won’t it, Yoko?”

“No,” she complained, and he laughed.

“Where’re Yu and Hanako?” Momo glanced around, noticing the absence of Natsuo’s other daughter and his wife.

“Hanako’s with Yu; she’s still too young to be doing things like walking and talking, so she’s very dependent on her wet nurse and her mother’s company,” Natsuo explained. “As for Yu, she’s incredibly heavy at the moment, so she needs more rest. She complains a lot about back aches, but the baby should be due any day now, so…”

He raised his eyebrows at Yoko.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little brother?” Natsuo prompted Yoko, bouncing her in his arms.

“No,” the little girl looked stroppy. “Hana’s enough.”

“You don’t mean that,” he grinned.

“Not all the time,” Yoko began fiddling with the collar of her father’s shirt. “If I don’t like him, can I- can I send him back?”

“Not sure it works like that,” Natsuo chuckled with Neito and Momo. “Yu’s in her chambers if you wanted to see her, although she has been quite grumpy lately.”

“I think I should like that,” Momo said. “Before she goes to sleep, or something like that.”

“There’s no fear of that,” Natsuo scoffed. “She complains how tired she is, and then she can’t go to sleep before of the kicking. The little beast is an active one, I can tell you that. Go pay her a visit. She’d like to see you.”

Momo curtsied, excusing herself before hurrying off through Castle Kasai Kori. She would do anything to avoid Neito where she could. The more time she spent with him, the more she fretted that others could see through the façade she tried to put on and that, through the cracks, they could feel her malevolence directed towards her husband. She let him do the talking unless it was to do with women, she let him speak for her wherever possible and she let him make the decisions. There were so many freedoms that she had had to give up in order to placate Neito and to prove she was trying her hardest. There were times when she wanted to give up, but she knew she couldn’t afford to sully her family’s name like that. She did worry about what others thought. Although she disliked Neito and wanted him to give her more credit, she still wanted him to want to be married to her. There would be nothing more embarrassing to Momo and her family for her to be spurned and rejected with a forced separation under the judgemental eyes of the Seven. Every time her mind threatened her with those ideas, she had to suppress her panic and she firmly told herself that she could be a good and loving wife. There were plenty of years ahead of them. She could adapt to life as the future Lady Monoma.

She knew Castle Kasai Kori like the back of her hand, so it wasn’t hard for her to find Yu’s chambers. Knocking on the heavy oak doors, she only entered when Yu called out to see who was on the other side. The room had the sweet smell of an infant and Hanako was sound asleep on the bed beside her mother, swaddled up despite how much she had grown. Yu looked exhausted, a light sweat on her forehead, cheeks flushed and stomach swollen with a child ready to be born. Momo could understand why Natsuo believed the baby was on the way soon. Yu was incredibly heavy with child, just over eight moon cycles, and would be nearing the ninth moon cycle in the next twenty days. It was no wonder that she was complaining of pains and general discomfort; soon she would have the baby and a new addition would be made to House Todoroki.

“Momo, just the person I wanted to see,” Yu breathed out, heaving to seat up whilst not disturbing the sleeping infant beside her.

Momo hurried over to help, aiding Yu into a seated position. The older woman glanced at her gratefully, wriggling to make herself comfortable.

“Did you need something?” Momo asked, concerned.

“I feel like I’m going crazy,” Yu complained. “The baby is driving me mad and I feel like I’m about to give birth at any moment. I look and feel so ugly. I was just want my body back because at the moment, it’s not _mine_ ; I’m just a _vessel_.”

“That’s not true,” Momo assured her, although she wasn’t sure whether she was telling a lie or not. “You’re under a lot of pressure at the moment and it looks like you’re nearing the time when the baby will arrive.”

“The baby isn’t due for another thirty days,” Yu said impatiently, and nodded knowingly when she saw the surprised look on Momo’s face. “Exactly my point. I’m scared the baby will arrive early, and I keep telling Natsuo this. He doesn’t understand motherhood, though, and he just listens to that cranky old hag of a wet nurse who seems to be trained by Lord Todoroki to make Todoroki wives feel crap about themselves.”

Momo affectionately petted Yu’s hand, taking care not to disturb Hanako. “I’m sure that’s not what the wet nurse’s intentions are.”

“Oh, no, she’s against me,” Yu scowled. “She tells Natsuo that I’m overreacting and just _feel_ like the baby will soon come, and that children tend to arrive on time. And, of course, he believes her, because both Yoko and Hanako arrived _on time_. But that’s not how babies work; there’s a period of time where they may or may not come and this is one of those times. I’m not going crazy.”

“Of course you’re not,” Momo said. “Children can be born both early and late. It’s only a problem when they’re born _moons_ too early. Only then they become small and sickly.”

“I’m glad you also agree with me,” Yu huffed out. “I’ve spoken with Lady Todoroki and she said that, yes, children come early, because Shoto came _two whole_ months earlier than expected and, although he was quite ill at first, he’s become a healthy young man. But _nobody_ listens to Lady Todoroki, because Lord Todoroki has painted her as a woman who’s unable to think for herself.”

Momo just listened with uncertainty, gently patting Yu’s hand every now and then. Lady Todoroki was a difficult subject amongst the family. Whenever Momo had spoken to her, she was sweet and kind, but in the past, she had thrown a pot of boiling water at Shoto, burning half of his face and leaving him blind in his left eye- a fact that Momo only knew because Shoto had told her. The reason as to why she had done this was unclear, with Lord Todoroki telling the world that his wife could be unstable from time to time. It was tragic, but after that incident, Lady Todoroki had hidden her face away, avoiding people and sitting in her chambers, watching out the window. It was a comfort that she was still speaking with _some_ people and spending time with her grandchildren.

“I want this baby out of me,” Yu complained. “I know that hateful hag will be feeding the child, but my back hurts _all of the time_ and the little wretch keeps _kicking_ and _punching_ , as if I’m some street urchin to be wrestled with. I fear my ankles are beginning to swell. _I’m_ swelling. I’m like a hog, stuffed with vegetables and so much so that I can’t move.”

The more she spoke, the less Momo wanted to hear. The thought of being like this, rendered incapable of moving around, was frightening. Natsuo was a kind and loving husband, which Momo believed had made Yu’s pregnancies as tolerable as they could be, but she couldn’t say the same with Neito. _Her_ husband didn’t even like her picking up a book. She could only dread what he would be like when she was sat down for most of the day, pitying herself and wishing she had more sympathy.

“I really hope it’s a son, you know,” Yu confessed, her voice becoming gentle as she absently rested her hand on her stomach. “We received a letter not long ago that Fuyumi had given birth to a little boy whom she named Tenkai. Lord Todoroki was thrilled- his first grandson! But it also meant I was more under the spotlight, because Fuyumi and I have both had two children now, except she’s given Lord Tensei a daughter _and_ a son, whereas I’ve only provided Natsuo with two _daughters_. I worry I’ll be one of those women who must have eight children before they give birth to a son. Imagine me having to do this _nine_ times. I fear I shall just become round forever.”

“I hadn’t realised Fuyumi had given birth,” Momo said.

“It was just before your name day,” Yu glanced at her. “I’m sure you were more preoccupied with your wedding arrangements with Lord Neito.”

Momo remained silent. She had been fretting about her wedding long before it had happened, and she was still irate about it now.

“How is being married to him?” Yu arched an eyebrow, idly massaging her finger’s through Hanako’s snow white hair. “I’ve always thought of him as an arrogant boy.”

“Then you’ve thought correctly of him,” Momo said drily.

Yu laughed. “You learn to love people for their good.”

She had not originally been betrothed to Natsuo. In their youth, Yu was supposed to have married Toya. After his death, House Todoroki and House Takeyama both arranged an agreement where instead, Yu would marry _Natsuo_. It had all been sudden, but it seemed that it had been the right decision. Although angry with pregnancy, Momo had seen Yu and Natsuo together. They were happy and well-matched, confident in their union and their children.

“Yoko has grown so much,” Momo told her. “What a beautiful young girl she is.”

“Very,” Yu beamed. “Natsuo just thinks the world of her, you know. But I know Lord Todoroki wasn’t pleased when our first child bore no Todoroki resemblance. He spoke to me, you know.” She lowered her voice and Momo leant forward. “He told me that if I were to dishonour the name and blood of House Todoroki that he would have me and my family punished. I can tell you that I turned that around on him when Hanako arrived, because she looks _exactly_ like her father. But Lord Todoroki makes it no secret that he prefers Hanako over Yoko and I don’t like that at all. You can’t dislike a child for the way they look; Yoko is just as much Natsuo’s as Hanako is.”

“I never doubted that for a second,” Momo informed her kindly.

“No?” Yu looked relieved. “I’m glad. Lady Todoroki believed me, too. She said something about the look in Yoko’s face when she pouts reminds her of when Natsuo was very young. Mothers can detect the strangest things about their children, can’t they?”

Momo nodded, just as Hanako began to stretch.

“She’ll start mewling because she’ll want feeding,” Yu smiled down at her second daughter. “I just hate that old hag, but with this third one on the way, I won’t be able to get rid of her quite yet.”

Neither of them voiced it, but House Todoroki, alongside the other five great houses Iida, Yamada, Aizawa, Shuzenji and Nishi, it was an old tradition for the mother of the family to bear her husband three sons. Even if Yu and Natsuo’s third child was a boy, for the sake of tradition, Yu would have to keep having children until two more sons were born. Some mothers were fortunate; three sons in a row and then they could choose to stop having children. Some were less fortunate and could have as many daughters as possible and still struggle to reach three sons.

Hanako began to make a complaintive noise, eyes scrunching up as she struggled against the pangs of hunger in her stomach.

“I would leave, if I were you,” Yu smiled. “The old hag doesn’t like people visiting me. In fact, she gets cranky. She dislikes Lady Todoroki the most. That hag says Lady Todoroki _can’t_ come into this room, for fear of her hurting the children. I don’t believe she would do that. I know… I know what happened to Shoto, but- shh.”

The infant’s complains became wails, and Yu invested more time into comforting her instead. Yu glanced apologetically at her and Momo took this as her cue to leave. Bidding the pregnant woman farewell, she made her way back to the entrance. She couldn’t hear anyone speaking anymore, so assumed they had delved either into the dining hall or the sitting room. On her way there, she stumbled across Shoto, who looked just as surprised to see as she did him.

He was a very handsome boy. He wore a look of eternal peace, one serene grey eye, the other the brilliant Todoroki turquoise. She knew the blue eye was sightless, but it didn’t appear to be so. His hair was both red and white, an unusual feature across Westeros that made him appear exotic and intriguing. He was taller than Momo, which she always deemed an achievement for a boy who was not yet ten and eight, and she knew he would grow taller because of his father’s great stature. When they were very young, Momo had believed she would marry Shoto for some reason. Weddings had always been thrown around in conversation when she was little, and since she spent so much time with House Todoroki as a girl, she had deceived herself into believing she would be Shoto’s wife. They would make the most attractive Lord and Lady in Westeros, but it was not to be. She had been destined for Neito and House Monoma, and she was sure that Lord Todoroki, who had a strange preference for Shoto over his other children, had greater plans for his youngest son. Momo Todoroki was a name she would never wear.

“My father sent me to get you,” he said, steadying her when she had jumped at the sight of him. “Natsuo told me you were with Yu.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, trying not to feel glad that his gentle hands were on her arms.

“I’m not sure,” Shoto let his hands drop to his sides.

She was a bad wife for looking at another man in that way. Momo knew that. It was a secret she would have to harbour to herself forever, though.

“A messenger arrived to say an important notice was to be said,” Shoto explained. “My grandmother noticed your absence and felt you ought to be present when the word was said, particularly as the messenger comes from the Red Keep.”

“A notice from the king?” she began to follow him to the dining hall, feeling the pace in her heart quicken. What could King Toshinori want from House Todoroki?

“I believe so,” Shoto pushed open the door and many pairs of Todoroki eyes turned their direction towards her.

“I apologise for being late,” she curtsied.

“Sit with me, child,” Ikuko Todoroki called from her chair.

She was an old woman, but still incredibly strong. Whilst she herself was not born a Todoroki, she had the same flame in her expression, sharp green eyes far from fading, even though her hair had turned silver. Her wrinkled lips were set into a firm frown and, even though she had stooped with age, she was still a very tall woman. Ikuko Todoroki had always had a soft spot for Momo, for reasons she couldn’t tell. She quietly took her place beside her and watched as Lord Todoroki motioned for the messenger to speak.

He was a large man with a wild mane of red hair and a beard to match. His piercing turquoise eyes could cut through the strongest of men. He was intimidating and Momo was, admittedly, a little frightened of him. She had never seen the man wear a _kind_ smile, only a victorious grin, bearing all teeth like a fierce lion.

The messenger cleared his throat and read his message aloud. For a moment, the entire room was silent. Momo took a moment to process the information, although she glanced at Shoto, who had followed her across the room and taken his seat beside her. He wore a look of indifference, as he always did; so stoic and unreadable, yet perfect like the carved marble statues in the rose garden. When she mulled it over some more, she realised that the king was proposing a challenge for all the young men of Westeros to compete to be the next in line for the title of King of the Andals and the First Men. It was the idea of a mad man and Momo couldn’t believe she was hearing what she had.

“Interesting,” Ikuko Todoroki said, blunt and cold as she assessed the messenger standing before them.

Her own disdain was not mirrored by her son, though. His face became ravaged with a beastly grin, as if he were baring his teeth and snarling at the man. His turquoise eyes gleamed with pride and he sat even taller in his chair.

“Thank you, sir,” Lord Todoroki said delightedly. “This news is indeed _very_ interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! I had a lot of fun writing Momo in a Todoroki dominated environment. I also really enjoyed writing the character of Yu. I'm exploring the different possibilities of what arrangements all the families may have made, which has really let me take on a lot of characters and explore their personalities and behaviours. As I said, really enjoyable and I hope you liked it, too!
> 
> As for a brief explanation on Shoto, I've decided to make his left eye blind for this AU, just because I researched thermal injuries and it's more likely that Shoto would've lost his sight than if he hadn't. Moreover, he doesn't have the heat resistance that I think (I don't know) his Quirk gives him, so even though it's not canon, I've decided here that Shoto will be sightless in his turquoise eye. [He is blind to his father's influence.] No, there's literally no symbolism xD I'm not that intelligent or arty.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Tetsutetsu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... having quite a bad few days. Some people are really poisonous. If someone makes you feel unhappy, just... avoid them? If they make you sad, they're not worth your time. Toxic friendships are real and... they suck.
> 
> I needed to feel better, so I wrote this chapter. Tetsutetsu is a sweetie, so he always lightens up my mood :)

**The wind was blisteringly cold, as if packed ice was being scraped across his skin and there were too many times when the ramps prevented him from being flung down the side of the Wall.** He had to squint past the sheer force of the gale, treading along the wooden walkways that had been established on top of the Wall many years ago. A lot of the planks were beginning to rot, although the builders were trying their best to maintain the conditions of all buildings and walkways. Tetsutetsu knew that, as soon as the walkways began to break and fall apart, he would have to be extra careful when walking around, as there would be increased risks of slipping and falling over. The defenders of the Wall and, ultimately, Westeros, didn’t need to think about their balancing acts when their main focus should’ve been on the wildlings down below.

As a humble steward, his role on the Wall didn’t extend to much. He was currently carrying hot flasks of cider to the rangers standing at the top, as they had requested, although he was fairly sure it was not entirely in his duty to perform such a feat. The wooden planks crunched beneath his feet, slippering from the thin layer of ice that had already accumulated on them, and just about ready to snap in half. He was frozen cold, black tunic barely enough defence against the winter. He was fortunate to have the black cloak of the Night’s Watch, the only possession they could provide lest they wanted to lose their men to the cold. As it happened, the Night’s Watch couldn’t afford to do that, with members having fallen to a record low over the years. Even across the three years that he had been stationed here, Tetsutetsu had noticed a decline in membership, with rangers dying on the other side of the Wall and the Wandering Crows taking longer in the south to find new recruits.

The deaths were perhaps the most concerning detail. First Ranger Naizen Tsutsumida had gravely reported that, whilst on patrol, the second squadron had ceased contact and, when searched for, were nowhere to be found. That had been ten men missing in one day with no explanation whatsoever. There had been other expeditions with similar results, and on one of them, the First Ranger had reported to hearing “an inhuman noise of which we couldn’t locate the source”. As a steward, Tetsutetsu was largely unnoticed by all others, blending into the shadows and listening in on conversations he wasn’t necessarily supposed to hear. It would only be a problem if someone were to spot him and even then, he would be harshly scolded and likely reassigned his role to a builder, or something. Maybe they would even make him a ranger, a disposable pawn for knowing more than he should’ve.

In truth, Tetsutetsu believed these were bear attacks. Such creatures could be found beyond the Wall and around the North and, since bears were powerful and largely underestimated in strength, it was no surprise that leagues of men should go missing at the hands of one. As for the unlocated bodies? Eaten, of course. They had become food for the bears and other prowling animals that fed off of carcasses, only to be buried by the snow. They would be found years later, not by First Ranger Naizen Tsutsumida, but by an entirely new First Ranger who would find the entire incident curious, if not a little bit disturbing.

Tetsutetsu found the two rangers who had requested the hot cider, idly talking to one another rather than paying attention to what was happening far down below. In some ways, Tetsutetsu didn’t blame them. The wildlings hadn’t made an appearance for quite some time now- at least not throughout Tetsutetsu’s time on the Wall- and they didn’t seem likely to do so _now_ of all times. As for the disappearances of rangers, the _bear_ would not be a threat all the way down there. Whilst bears were proficient climbers, the Wall was seven-hundred feet tall, created by magic and men some eight millennia ago. If it were to fall, Tetsutetsu feared it could never be rebuilt again. But a bear couldn’t bring the Wall down, nor could a bear climb so high. It would grow tired too soon, claws biting into the ice, before it gave up and searched for more food. In fact, the attacks would probably stop soon. With the early arrival of winter, the bear would gather all the nuts and berries it needed before lapsing into a peaceful hibernation.

“Here you go!” he said cheerfully, never one to falter or complain in his duties.

He was sad to let the hot cider go, since it had been warming his hands, but the gratitude on the faces of the rangers suggested they had perhaps needed it more. On the top of the Wall, the temperatures were frightfully low and the winds even stronger. Without the black cloaks that the Night’s Watch wore, a man would freeze to death in moments. Down below, when cleaning the barracks and helping Chef scrub away at used bowls to clear it of whatever grime he had managed to muster up, Tetsutetsu avoided most of the buffeting winds and terrifying chills. Their pale faces told another story as they held their flasks close to their faces.

“This is much appreciated, Tetsu,” Hanshiro Momotami, a weathered man nearing fifty of average height and build lifted in flask of ale. He was a man of the North, having been born and raised there, so held a strange fascination with the odd tree gods they worshipped up here. He was perfectly likeable though, having a polite and quiet nature.

“We never know when this may be our last drink!” Norinaga Choshi cheered, raising the flask before taking a swig of hot cider. “Anything tastes like ambrosia seven-hundred feet about the ground.”

“Don’t act like it’s your last day on Westeros,” Tetsutetsu laughed. “The Wall still needs you, especially since the women don’t!”

Since they had taken the black, they were not permitted to go and visit their families, nor have relations with women, although some black brothers did. Having been brought to the Wall just aged twelve, Tetsutetsu would never know, nor would he miss, the touch of a woman. Being a member of the Night’s Watch wasn’t a problem for him. His mother, upon depositing him at the Wall, had caught a terrible fever that had taken her life within a quarter moon cycle. Other than that, she had been a whore, so his father’s identity never had and never would be known. He knew his father’s _name_ \- Yoshitaka- since his mother had murmured it repeatedly in her feverish sleep, promising the man that his son was alive and safe. However, there were plenty of people in Westeros named Yoshitaka, so that had meant next to nothing for him. Tetsutetsu had no desire to find his father. The man had never been a part of his life and he didn’t intend for him to be.

A long time ago, Choshi would’ve beaten Tetsutetsu’s face in for having made a comment like that, but now he just roared in laughter and ruffled the boy’s head. When he had first arrived at the Wall, as a new recruit, he had been weak and straggly. It seemed to be common practice for the black brothers to mistreat new members, a method of putting them in their place. There was definitely a desired hierarchy, even amongst the Night’s Watch, who laid down their titles, names and honours when taking on the black. It was more based on merit and authority; who had spent the longest on the Wall, who had made the most achievements whilst on the Wall. Nobility meant nothing to the black brothers and the only lord present was Lord Commander Tsukauchi. Tetsutetsu had originally be mocked and ridiculed, like all other new recruits, except his mistreatment had perhaps gone further as the other recruits had latched on to his ridiculous name and tortured him through that. Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu- his mother had always referred to him as that, for she had been unable to give him a name that associated with either him or his father. He was mostly called ‘Tetsu’ on the wall, which suited him just fine, and having spent three years working as a steward, Tetsutetsu had found a place for himself with the Night’s Watch on the Wall.

“There is something strange occurring on the other side of these walls, though,” Momotami looked cautiously into the white blizzards Beyond the Wall. “Myself and Choshi are fortunate enough that we have ridden with First Ranger Naizen, for we haven’t encountered the beast that is taking all the men. I fear that as numbers dwindle, we shall soon be transferred into smaller expeditionary groups, one at a time, until not a single one of us remains.”

Choshi was nodding along to this. “There’s barely any rangers left as it is.”

“It’s a bear,” Tetsutetsu told them. “Obviously.”

A grim expression appeared on the face of Momotami. “We’re not dealing with a bear, I’m afraid. Something far worse. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this really, not when even the Lord Commander is unsure of what to make of these details, but you’re a good man, Tetsu, and you’ll probably have to take on a ranger’s role with the way things have been progressing.”

“And you brought us cider!” Choshi grinned.

“Whilst on patrols nearby the Haunted Forest, we’ve noticed that the number of wildling tracks has significantly decreased,” Momotami explained. “At first, we had wondered if they were organising an attack on the Wall. The absence of wildlings is never a good thing. However, I feel like our fears have been worsened. Even the barbarians Beyond the Wall don’t want to be near whatever has been lurking through the Haunted Forest. It’s not that they’re not present; they had uprooted and moved to a further distance. There are no tracks or signs of life, nothing.”

“Surely that’s a good thing?” Tetsutetsu asked.

“Normally, I might be pleased that the wildlings have left,” Momotami’s mouth twisted into a frown. “But we found a stag in the Haunted Forest on our most recent patrol and it was a terrifying sight. The creature was dead, its throat ripped open and its skull entirely crushed. No bear could do that, Tetsu. Whatever monster is Beyond the Wall, it’s stronger than a bear and screams like a man in pain. The noises we heard were horrific, a creature’s death throws that wouldn’t stop, no matter how much we tried to ignore the noise on our way back to the Wall. The beast has likely caught the other men, as its shrieks came from the direction the other squadron came from.”

Tetsutetsu shuddered, envisioning the stag’s death. “Maybe it was a big bear?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it and I don’t want it to see us,” Choshi snorted, following their gaze towards the snow-topped trees.

“You’re not supposed to be up here, steward,” a voice growled, and Tetsutetsu almost jumped out of his skin.

It was Ryo Inui, another ranger who was currently patrolling the top of the Wall. Fortunately, he hadn’t heard Momotami and Choshi telling him about the monster in the Haunted Forest. Ryo was the type of man who would get irritated by someone breaking the walls. He had fled to the wall on accounts of witchcraft on his mother’s part. With the leather mask he wore that covered the lower half of his face like a muzzle, there really wasn’t much else about Ryo that Tetsutetsu would say was odd. He had a big mane of blonde hair and tended to growl in interrupted sentences when he was angry. A strange man, but Tetsutetsu would hardly have called him the “abomination” he was so rumoured to be.

“Sorry, sir,” he stammered, just as Ryo flinched, his body going tense.

Curiously, the man lifted his head upwards, as if trying to search the sky for something, or having smelt something delicious. As hard as Chef may have tried, Tetsutetsu despairingly knew there were no pleasant ingredients to be used in Castle Black.

Looking back, Tetsutetsu would tell Lord Commander Tsukauchi that time slowed down. He had heard that, in the moment before death, your life flashed before your eyes. However, when Tetsutetsu looked death in the eye, all he could think of was how to react, for his heart stilled in its beats and his breathing hitched. It was most likely whilst they had been talking, because he couldn’t imagine any other way they would’ve missed the monstrous creature that he stood face to face with. It had rows of very, very sharp teeth, as if they had been filed to a point. They reminded him of the teeth of a large and aggressive shark, the way they gleamed. Its unblinking eyes bulged, protruding from a skinless brain, exposed to the elements and yet it remained unaffected by it. Its shoulders were wide and muscular, with tar black skin stretching across its muscles, as if the monster was skinless and wearing a tight covering. Its meaty fists were clutching at the wall, which was when Tetsutetsu realised this strange hybrid of human and beast had climbed all seven hundred feet in order to reach the top.

He threw himself down onto the wooden planks as its fingers shot towards him. The wooden planks were rough and hard on his knees and forearms, but Tetsutetsu was too frightened to properly register the brief moment of pain that tingled through his body. The monster swiped at the air where he had stood, its blank stare not even following his movements. Crawling along the planks, Tetsutetsu slipped and slid in his haste to escape the monster. The other three men had drawn their swords, with Choshi dashing towards the monster to plunge his sword through its chest. The blade bit in, passing through skin with an awful _thunk_ that sounded both hollow and full. Tetsutetsu felt the muscles in his body relax as its head lolled to fix a dead stare on the sword. Whilst it had been intelligent enough to reach the top of the Wall- or perhaps more _enduring_ than _intelligent_ \- it had clearly not anticipated the attack it would receive upon reaching the top.

Momotami cried out a strangled noise when its hand shot forward and crushed Choshi’s head in a single movement. Blood spattered Tetsutetsu and two men, grey matter dribbling down Choshi’s neck as his body gave its last twitches. Fumbling for the sword at his own belt, Tetsutetsu only managed to scramble to his feet as the monster vaulted over the railings and onto the Wall. For thousands of years, the Night’s Watch had protected Westeros from wildlings and, according to the legends, far worse. He was sure there had been periods of time when the Wall had been under threat, such as now, but none had happened during his lifetime, or across the previous generations’ experiences. In fact, he was fairly sure this was the first time the Wall was being breached over the past century.

What Tetsutetsu was looking at was not a bear. When it straightened its spine, rolling massive shoulders backwards, it was more than ten feet tall, towering over all of them. It was more monstrous now than it had been moments before, which Tetsutetsu hadn’t believed to be possible. Choshi’s sword was sticking out of its chest, but the beast wasn’t affected in the slightest. Stretching its arms out, it finally released its awful hold on the grown man’s head, letting his body plummet down the Wall. Momotami was the first to react, swiftly charging to swing his sword, cutting deep into its arm. The wound would’ve slowed a normal man, but the monster slammed its fist into Momotami’s stomach, folding him as he flew backwards, rolling across the planks and falling motionless. Was he dead? Tetsutetsu couldn’t tell, but the monster had turned its stare towards him and his blood was going ice cold.

It never blinked, bulging stare relentless and intimidating. His legs were shaking and, even if he had been taught some of the battle stances of a ranger, he was a steward with no fighting experience and little knowledge on how to use a sword. He knew he couldn’t defeat this creature, but he could definitely try. He was about to make his move when Ryo lunged at the monster, gorging a large chunk of flesh from its side. It quivered, barely recognising the pain, before batting the sword from his hand with ease. Ryo was a skilled ranger, so to see him defenceless without barely having put up a fight frightened Tetsutetsu. It spurred him into action, tearing forwards and lodging his sword in between two of its ribs. The way the blade sank into leathery skin made it feel less like killing a man, no matter how humanoid the beast may have been. He only just managed to withdraw his sword when he the monster slammed a massive hand into his shoulder, an attack that had initially been aimed at his chest. A blinding pain shot through his body as his arm was twisted back at an unnatural angle and he stumbled backwards, sword skittering across the icy ground.

A dark shadow loomed over Tetsutetsu, who tearfully looked up at the monster. He couldn’t believe he was crying, but then… he had seen what had happened to Choshi. Tetsutetsu didn’t want to die. Ryo leapt onto the monster’s back, twisting its head away from him in an attempt to break its neck. It had a thick, sinewy neck, though, so resisted the impact and grabbed at Ryo, trying to tear him off of its back with little success. Tetsutetsu retrieved his sword and tore at the creature’s stomach and chest, blood spattering all over his face and clothes as he gored the monster. It bled- it bled _a lot_ \- but it remained seemingly unaffected as he plunged the sword in and out of its torso. Only when Ryo was thrown successfully off of its back did it whip its head down to look back at Tetsutetsu.

Its stomach and entrails were spilling down its front, so why wasn’t it _dying_? Tetsutetsu had the brains to make some distance between himself and the monster, since there was only so far it could reach despite being as tall as a tower. It lurched towards him, which was when he noticed Ryo crawl across the ground behind it, before slicing it at the ankles. The monster collapsed forward, chin hitting the icy ground. Again, it remained unaffected and paid Ryo no attention, reaching thick, muscled arms forwards and crawling towards him.

“The head!” Ryo barked from behind it, and Tetsutetsu’s gaze landed on the brain, the exposed weakness that should’ve been obvious to him to begin with!

Sword clutched in between sweaty palms, he lashed out at the monster, cleaving off a chunk of pink, squishy brain matter. It twitched, almost falling motionless, before it continued its slow approach, fingers skirting against one of his ankles. He knew what he had to do to kill it, but he was afraid of getting closer. Its brain was haemorrhaging, yet it was hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Panicked, he stabbed the sword into the top of its head, sinking the blade through its brain. _Now_ it reacted, juddering to a stop and staring into space as he held the sword in place. Tetsutetsu breathed out a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. The monster grabbed his ankles and whipped his feet out from underneath him. The air was knocked out of his lungs as he landed on his back on the hard icy ground. His attempts to wriggle his legs free were useless. The beast had a tight hold on him and it wasn’t giving him up so easily. In fact, it was opening its jaws, wide teeth on display and he could see down its cavernous mouth. It was nearing his leg, ready to take a bite, when Ryo crawled up along its back, taking its oblivion to him as an advantage. Tetsutetsu was almost sick when he dug his fingers beneath both sides of its brain and store the organ out with all his might, the cord snapping from the creature’s head, its body tensing and then it died, head falling to the ground.

Blood from the monster’s brain was running down Ryo’s forearms and an ice-cold breeze swept forlornly over the Wall. Tetsutetsu was frozen on the spot, staring at the monster’s motionless corpse. He finally dared to remove his legs from its grasp, cautious just in case if it came back to life. It didn’t, much to his relief. He was almost sick when Ryo dropped the brain, letting it splat unceremoniously on the ground. It was a move of finality as blood pooled around the monster’s body, threatening to drip over the side of the Wall. Tetsutetsu was more than sure that many a man’s blood had run down the icy barrier over the centuries.

“Are you OK, steward?” Ryo Inui raised his masked face and looked at Tetsutetsu with eyes that were almost feral.

“I mean…” Tetsutetsu winced when he tried to move his arm. “Mostly.”

“We shall have to have that looked at,” Ryo pointed out, dusting himself off with bloodied hands as he got to his feet, standing over the body as if he had been out hunting.

Tetsutetsu heard the tell-tale rattle of the wooden lift being pulled up as someone made their way to the top of the wall. Some part of him feared it would be a headless Choshi, but the man was dead and not as resilient as the monster had been. No man could’ve competed with it. Tetsutetsu found himself looking into its dead eyes and couldn’t contain the shudder that wracked through his body. It was too similar to having a man die not to feel nauseous.

“What’s going on?” the rough voice of First Ranger Naizen called over the breeze. Tetstutetsu tiredly looked over his shoulder to see the other man halt in his steps, sword drawn. “What in the name of the Seven _is that_?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Ryo stepped over the monster’s body. “I think it may be the culprit of the disappearances of our fellow rangers.”

First Ranger Naizen cautiously approached the monster, walking past Tetsutetsu to crouch beside its sightless eyes.

“And this monster… I presume it killed the man who fell, headless, down the wall?”

“You’re correct,” Ryo dipped his head briefly, before glancing at Tetsutetsu. “Steward, report on Momotami’s condition and, depending on his results, the pair of you can report to the maester and hope that you can have both arms functioning.”

Tetsutetsu took that as a signal for his dismissal, jumping over the monster’s corpse. He tried his best not to slip as he battled against the cold, blustering winds to where Momotami laid motionless on the ground. He didn’t appear to be dead and, when Tetsutetsu pressed cold fingers to his wrist, he was more than relieved to find there was a pulse present. Still, Momotami had taken a head wound and was bleeding from it. Tetsutetsu was no expert on wounds and injuries, but he knew no head wound was a good wound. He wasn’t strong enough to carry Momotami on his own, instead drawing the other man’s arms over his shoulders and pulling him along. Since he was a strong young man, built like an ox, there had been talks about changing his role in the Night’s Watch to a builder, rather than a steward. With the gradual decline in members of the Night’s Watch, it was likely that current builders would become rangers, leaving space for him to be promoted.

With one of his arms useless, though, it was difficult for Tetsutetsu to pull Momotami along. First Ranger Naizen was investigating the monster’s corpse with Ryo as he wandered back past. Stepping out onto the shaking, wooden platform, Tetsutetsu made sure he had a tight hold on Momotami. Even they were to lose balance, the two of them could plummet down seven hundred feet, a drop that would kill them instantly. The wind made the lift shake even more, but Tetsutetsu was unperturbed, hauling on the ropes with one hand. He only knew he was getting help from the bottom when he could feel the tugging of the ropes from the other end of the line.

It took far longer than necessary, given that Tetsutetsu was injured, but once he had reached the bottom, he received assistance from other men of the Night’s Watch. He was glad that he had managed to get Momotami safely down the walls, despite the man having received such a bad head wound. It was no surprise that they were brought straight to Maester Tanyu, an aged man who was lucky to be alive in the cold weather of the North.

Maester Tanyu was withered beyond his years, his skin paper thin and white as snow. His eyesight was terribly bad, his hair almost entirely thinned away, and arthritis had made its home in his fingers and limbs. He was slow and hard of hearing, probably the oldest man in Westeros in Tetsutetsu’s opinion. His black robes hung from his thin and frail body, his hands shook and his chain looked like it weighed down his already stooped shoulders. Maester Tanyu was always surrounded by old books and parchments which were supposedly written in High Valyrian, a long dead language. He was trained in the practice of medicine, whence Tetsutetsu had been told to seek him out.

“Maester Tanyu,” Tetsutetsu almost shouted the words to get the old man’s attention. “We have wounded men.”

The old man raised a tired head, before rising from his creaky chair and shuffling across the room. Momotami was laid across a sofa so the maester could get a closer look at him.

“A possible concussion,” Maester Tanyu reached towards Momotami with swollen fingers. “It is a simple matter of stitching and stemming the bleeding.”

“What’s a concussion?” Tetsutetsu asked.

“To put it simply, a very large knock to someone’s head,” the old man chuckled, revealing the very few teeth he had remaining. “Nothing incurable and definitely not the worst thing I have laid eyes on. Some bandaging and thread shall be required, steward, if you may?”

Tetsutetsu jumped to action, which was when the maester noticed his limp arm.

“It would appear you yourself have taken an injury, steward,” the maester replied. “Add some milk of the poppy to the list of ingredients I require.”

He nodded and leafed around the maester’s chambers, eventually picking out soft bandaging for wounds, a needle and thread, and finally a bottle filled with a white substance from the poppy seeds the maester had crushed to make it. Tetsutetsu delivered the three items and watched with quiet interest as the maester dabbed at Momotami’s wound with a cloth. It was immediately stained red. Carefully, the maester used a blade to shave the hair from Momotami’s head to reveal a tiny cut. It took him barely any time to carefully thread the needle and stitch the skin together. Since Momotami was unconscious, he didn’t react. Maester Tanyu carefully wrapped bandaging around Momotami’s head, a thick protection to prevent dirt reaching the wound. It was such a peaceful and quiet procedure that Tetsutetsu felt at ease just watching.

“This man will take some time to heal,” Maester Tanyu replied. He wasn’t good with names. “Even after he is walking around, it would be a risk for him to walk on the Wall.”

“And what about me?” Tetsutetsu asked.

Maester Tanyu motioned for him to near and peered closely at Tetsutetsu’s useless arm. It was a quick assessment, for he soon leant back, a satisfied expression on his face.

“Dislocation and possibly a fracture,” the maester concluded. “You must have had quite a fall. I will indeed need for you to drink this…”

The maester poured milk of the poppy into a glass which he handed to Tetsutetsu. It was not a lot, which indicated he would need to be awake for this.

“I will need the help of one of you,” Maester Tanyu told the builders. “I don’t have the strength to push his arm back.”

“Push my arm back?” Tetsutetsu felt relaxed, despite his confusion.

“A dislocation is a mere pop of your limb coming away from your body,” the maester explained as one of the builders took Tetsutetsu’s arm. A throb of pain emanated through his body. “It takes quite a bit of push to push it back. My strength left with my youth, but it doesn’t require an expert in medicine. All I ask is that you brace yourself.”

Tetsutetsu gritted his teeth together and the builder hefted his arm back into its socket. He had to growl to prevent himself screaming in agony, but the pain was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“As for the bones, well…” the maester approached and pressed his fingers to the swollen skin of Tetsutetsu’s arm. He hissed in pain. “Indeed, a fracture. It will take some time before you can use it once more, but you must use it carefully in the meantime and, even once it is healed, this arm shall always be weaker.”

Tetsutetsu forlornly watched the old man shuffle across the room, lifting two strips of thin, carved wood which he had presumably made at some point. Maester Tanyu was incredibly well prepared. With some additional bandaging, the old man tightly wrapped the two pieces of wood on either side of Tetsutetsu’s arm, using the bandages to carefully curve his arm across his chest, tying the soft material over his shoulder to keep the arm in place.

“It will probably be two moon cycles before the arm begins to feel normal once more,” the maester said grimly. “Breakages are so complicated.”

The door opened to reveal Lord Commander Tsukauchi, accompanied by First Ranger Naizen. It appeared that the monster had been assessed by the Lord Commander, who’s face was pale and his eyes wide with horror. He was a man from House Tsukauchi, who had taken the black long ago out of choice, despite being heir to the name Tsukauchi.

“You are the steward who encountered the monster?” the Lord Commander asked.

“That was me,” Tetsutetsu replied.

“Then I shall need some explaining,” Lord Commander Tsukauchi gestured for him to follow. “I would like to hear from you exactly what happened on top of the Wall.”

Tetsutetsu would begin his story by telling the Lord Commander how time itself seemed to have slowed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make some random name for Snipe, since he doesn't have one. In this Fic, Snipe = First Ranger Naizen.


End file.
